what’s left.

I’ve scraped the bottom for every last remnant–with the same measure of effort it takes to squeeze blood from turnips.  Diluted, diluted, then double diluted again.  Stretching it–making it last.  But I can feel the dullness setting in.  What’s harder: the initial shock of loss or the realization that you might finally be letting go?  Its slipping away now and on the outskirts of what was once vivid.  Felt moments of ‘reliving it’ are fewer in the far betweens.  I know where this goes–it has to go for the story to work.

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