Her intentions were never to burden him. She never meant to complicate his life. She only wanted to add to all the good she saw in him. She would have broken every rule to be his happiness, his muse. She wanted to be the one he stayed awake with all night fogging back seat windows. The one he came to for good advice and bad ideas. The one he would sit with in bar rooms and waiting rooms and airports. But she came up short.
Misbelief reached out for her hand. She listened intently, felt intently, examined her motivation and the consequences of her inquisition, then she blindly followed anyway. Inventorying all the ways she would love him, breadcrumbing for seasons, strung out on hope, lies. Surviving on the last contraction of his throat as he kissed her, swallowing his indecision day after day, wishing he'd just choose.
And when he chose, well, she'd never known such carnage. The loss of something that was never hers. The darkness in the middle of the day. The deep, seething pain in the palms of her hands. The sound of the pieces of her heart clink-clinking on the floor behind her as she pulled away, still madly in love and completely destroyed. She wanted to set his soul on fire but instead, she only burnt herself down.
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