The fly and I sit about the bed in our motel room, swarming around our thoughts in fretful urgency. He agrees in my ear that you are better off gone and that each day in passing is making me understand the idea of alone. Yet, he promises to not let me sleep by myself–a buzzing pendulum that infests my dreams. My ears won’t stop ringing. The sound of your voice echoes amongst his wings, his bug eyes mirrored images of the last smile you gave me over morning’s coffee: “It’s just easier this way,”: desperate and empty like your studio apartment above the liquor store you frequented late at night when you couldn’t sleep. I throw back a nightcap now and pray for silence, a sleep void of the oceans full of memories–always high tide with no lighthouse to warn me–a quiet sleep in which my eyes shut dry for once. The fly, he assures me I’m strong enough, whispers me a hushed lullaby in his monotone voice. I blink slowly while listening to his tune, void of rhythm, void of hope, a trapped tune that tells me he doubts either of us will make it another day. Through thin curtains, a light blinks o- p- e- n in neon green, throwing waves upon the ceiling of our two-star motel that remind me of headlights on all the highways leading to you. Was I wrong to run away? The buzzing pendulum lands silently for the night; somewhere in the corner, I hear him sigh before resting eternally. And I press my eyelids together in mourning.

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