Everyone goes away. That should not surprise anyone. It comes with the ticking of clocks in upstairs halls, with the shadows of afternoons that turn golden before fading and the last star left shining between the midnight west and bombdark dawn. My mother cries at her kitchen sink and the girl I argued with washes out her paintbrushes in a room I have never seen. Voices fill the air.
Small birds go south.
The snow melts slowly. When you most want them to stay everyone goes somewhere else and that is why the ocean tastes of tears. Go back to the Red Booth Review .