Skip a stone barely tread the surface of that lake with tired eyes tracing it, forcing to let go of the hurt. I told him to fade very slowly so it doesn't scar and he did. I was the one ripping apart this wound and soaking it in seasalt.
Half of January is about me; once again ongoing catharsis, and not for the last time I believe.
I know you're reading this. I'm saying my farewell now. When you come home and smash the talisman bottled with that sentient rose, please just let the words rot in it until nothing is left.
God I hate that I literally have to say goodbye so many times like this.
