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  • When the air grows cold I am reminded of what a coward I was.

    The way my shoes would slide about on the iced-over concrete outside your home and the way I'd debate between knocking or running. How you were always dolled up in a short-cut, black or white dress, lips painted blood red, a dirty blonde nest of hair pulled into a bun. You'd smile with a bright, closed mouth, and daring eyes. We'd sit in silence near the glow of pasty white candles and the neon kitchen light.

    "What?" you would laugh. I would be a coward. "Nothing," my reply.

    So nothing it was. Certainly not love, but not a quick undressing or sleeping until morning either. It became nothing and you moved. The physical distance was easy to figure out, one moment you were there and the next you were gone. The emotional distance was harder. And who knows, you could have been gone from the moment I first knocked on that door.

    "Whatever happens, happens," you would chant, days before your physical departure. And so nothing happened.
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