Grasping At Truth

Just one more twitch and his trembling hand would choke her.

A neck, unshaven, catches on the collar and he loosens his grip, tugging at the material, scratching.

Life is not supposed to go this way. How can they not see?

Sharp memories point to shadows where limbs once draped like molten flesh and bruised chardonnay. It was just a job.

A hand came to rest where love reached for a second chance.

Just then, headlights passed through the windowpane; silhouettes shaped the outcome of what would be.

His coffee ran cold. He was alone when they approached the house.

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