Edges
I teetered between packing and bouts of sickness.
Not real medical sickness, like the flu, but the leftovers of Lil, like bad food I might not ever crave again. I had tried to get behind her eyes, under her skin, to look out from her vantage point along our historical timeline.
I didn't agree, even, on the colors she saw.
From her eyes I saw me as unambitious, too laid-back, lacking in a business kind of confidence, what I interpret as cockiness.
"I have lots of potential. I'm just a late-bloomer."
...once upon a time...-- I now knew why fairy-tales started that way-- it had been unclear where the edges of me ended and she began.
Now I was sick at the edges of me bleeding out, into the vague few days I had left in this town. I oozed singular themes of my current life-- packed boxes, fresh strawberries, fall leaves, coins, Miles Davis-- like strange acronyms that spilled out along the hardwoods of the near-empty house, the cold sidewalk, the garden, until I felt edgeless and fat outside my skin.
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