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 as his thoughts poured 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 vessel of communication in the form of human paint. The pain of bleeding his thoughts in front of her would pale in comparison to the torture that was the bottleneck flow for the words he wanted to say to her that day.

 

The face that he grew in love with, and dreamed about night after night for the past year was different now than when they were together; it was older, aged by the weights of stress from heartache and homework. Heartache, caused by him, and the terrible things he 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 again, the rest of him thought 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, with his head split open. She left him, as she always did, breathless.


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