Love’s Labour Lost

Gradually the threads dissolve, the strings come undone. We become footnotes in someone else’s life, remembered fondly in the middle of drying dishes on a warm Wednesday night. In the end, this is all we’re reduced to, this is what we’re left with.

Glib laughter, and a very witty thing she once said. A song at the club that you used to dance to. A secret habit of wolfing down cocktail olives without ever ordering martinis. An old tee shirt and a mini collection of her scrunchies, accumulating in your car.

A few things that last longer than the relationship was meant to.

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