When I am not enough for a person, I don’t give all that is left in me; I just leave them dry and rough. Today, it is happening. Not by accident, but by choice. When your wife finds someone who loves her better than you, you have a handful of great options, but I have settled for my own best.
I run from the house, bare feet. My pajamas flap against the currents of the winds and my white shirt hangs loosely on my body. Both clothing is painted with red fluids. I keep on running towards nowhere.
My breathing skips every once in a while and there is no warmth in the air I inhale. Sweat beads form on my forehead, but I do not stop from running.
My feet kiss the cold cement of the road—sometimes it picks up fragments of blades and broken glasses. I find an empty looking, dark house and run my way to it. I open the door and there is no change in the temperature. I do not hear anything, but the silent mock of the moon. I run to the stairs and towards the first door to my left.
I open the door and find my wife sleeping cold on the floor—embracing a flood of blood. I gasp as I realize I have just run back to where I started. A low sound of wail emerges nearby; so, I turn around to escape.
And I am blinded by the lights.