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October 29, 2021
He’s still there, in all ways except in body. His picture is on the mantel, his clothes in the closet, his shoes lined up by the door. The smell of his cologne still lingers in the bedsheets and doorways.
She lives in that house quietly, always looking over her shoulder. Sometimes, she’ll step on the shards of his bottles on the carpet, and they’ll etch crimson onto the soles of her feet. Tears will scald her cheeks as the whisper of his hands graze her neck.
He never really left at all, did he?
© Anonymous
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