"Leaving is not enough. You must stay gone. Train your heart like a dog. Change the locks even on the house he’s never visited. You lucky, lucky girl. You have an apartment just your size. A bathtub full of tea. A heart the size of Arizona, but not nearly so arid. Don’t wish away your cracked past, your crooked toes, your problems are papier mache puppets you made or bought because the vendor at the market was so compelling you just had to have them. You had to have him. And you did. And now you pull down the bridge between your houses, you make him call before he visits, you take a lover for granted, you take a lover who looks at you like maybe you are magic. Make the first bottle you consume in this place a relic. Place it on whatever altar you fashion with a knife and five cranberries. Don’t lose too much weight. Stupid girls are always trying to disappear as revenge. And you are not stupid. You loved a man with more hands than a parade of beggars, and here you stand. Heart like a four-poster bed. Heart like a canvas. Heart leaking something so strong they can smell it in the street."
- Frida Kahlo
A single tear slipped from the folds of her closed lids as her heart began to harden. It, is, finished. A single tear, a single thought. They had tried. They had given it their best shot. She had thought it could be, would be, should be. She had thought that he could be, would be, should be, the one. The one to take a dive into the cool and treacherous, dark waters. A fall into a chasm so deep, it lead to the beginning, the creation, the creator. But it was too late. She knew it deep in her heart. She had not the patience, and he not the courage. So it had began, same as it had started— Her intuition alerting her of their looming end, and his naïvety keeping him blind, and soon to follow suite. Farwell my lover.