"I can't write anymore."
"– And my paintings are lousy."
Those were the last two things she said.
Not complaining, this time.
Not mad. Not worried.
I sense no panic.
Her voice was dead hollow. Blank.
I replied,
but with silence.
Exactly what she wanted to hear.
There was more silence after that.
So much of it,
our small apartment felt like it wanted to combust.
Deafening, threatening, uneasy.
Bianca, on the mattress –
I, on the floor.
We were two feet close.
And now two feet far.
But distance
always
lied.
We were separated by a lifetime worth of space.
