On Moving On…

Antiquarius

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I don’t remember much of last winter. I was too buried in grief colder than any squall. The sharp bite of bitter wind was a welcome distraction from the sickness of my heart.

I put all the things he gave me in the back of my closet, not brave enough to throw them in the trash but not bold enough to keep them around either. Like all bad memories, I hoped they would just fade away.

I found things enough to keep me busy during the days, but the nights were filled with inescapable loops of all the things I could have done better. Of all the things I might have done wrong.

I don’t remember the first day after January 7th that I didn’t see his face every time I closed my eyes, but it must have come. Yes, it must have. Because the sick sinking feeling in my…

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