When winter comes, the pigeons have gone and only one lover sits. The park is gloomy, the trees are bare — as empty as his heart without her.
His body washed ashore weeks later. She had seen him only once – tossing his life jacket to her. She didn’t know his name – only his heart.
I made her a sandwich, washed an apple, and hoped she’d cope without me. She waved goodbye through a gin-fueled haze as I hopped on the bus.
My finger lingered over the key. I needed to end our online friendship. But it’s hard to end things with a friend that died three years ago.
Adirondack chairs abandoned lakeside. Kayaks tied to the car roof. Tweens puff on stolen cigarettes, plot to run away together.
Roadkill on the curb. Windbreaker, luggage, a dead TV. A toddler stares, confused. No one should have his heart broken before breakfast.