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 material, scratching.

Life was not supposed to go this way. How could they not see his true integrity?

Sharp memories pointed to shadows where her limbs once draped like molten flesh and bruised chardonnay.

A hand came to rest and he was absent of everything. His only love was within his grasp.

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

His coffee ran cold. He was alone.

One thought on “Grasping At Truth

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