The Table

If he could’ve, he would walk away from that table, the three feet that separated his heart from hers, and split his skull open against the concrete wall, and walk back. He would crash his head onto table, and let her watch his thoughts pour out in front of her like a fountain of red confessions. All of them, the thoughts and words that he so often fails to say would finally breach the walls of her mind. There, on that table, along with a limp head would be the foundation for a chance together again, provided that she was not overwhelmed by the resilience and severity of his affection. The pain of bleeding his thoughts in front of her would pale in comparison to the torture of the bottleneck flow for the words he wanted to say to her that day.

The face that he grew in love with, and dreamt about night after night for the past year. It’s different now than when they were together; it’s older, aged by the weights of stress from heartache and homework. Heartache, caused by him, and the terrible things I’ve forced her to endure. Yet, despite seeing the pain that she carried alone upon her shoulders, and as his heart wished nothing more than to carry that weight so she may feel content agian, the rest of him thught about how the cloud above his head wets the sidewalk with his own tears, how the moon becomes dirty when he looks to it and ask for peace from the guilt he carries from leaving. He left her, terribly. He left her, because of insecurity and instability. And then she left him, as she always did, breathless.

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