I can just see you now. Sitting alone again. Drinking coffee long since grown cold. But I know you don’t taste it. I wonder if you think you’ll find her among the grounds at the bottom of your mug…

But just before that thought shakes you out of the waking coma you let yourself fall into every time it gets to be too much, you’ll pick up the newspaper (the same one you read yesterday and didn’t catch a thing) and you’ll begin to cut out random words. And here comes my favorite face you sometimes make. The one that’s so alive and so intent that it makes me scared you might actually do something about it all.

But you never do. You just keep cutting out the words that make you feel. You can’t even write them. You have to pretend they don’t mean anything to you at all. (And that’s what makes me feel.)

And eventually you’ll stop. And your eyes will get that look in them and I’ll know that you can’t see me anymore. And I’ll wonder again if you ever did.