“Why can’t he see? How blind can he be? Someday he will see, that he was meant for me.” –“To Know Him Is To Love Him”
I leave him with his charts. Pennies for another worship service, my platitudes a meager defense for her plagiarized life. Tonight, she takes new flesh in the house he built with his bare hands, raw and numb now, the anger a Tetanus shot to ward off that cancer called Love. But Time, a thief he lets rummage through empty rooms.
My meager offering aside, next to a pile of unpaid bills, a lukewarm cup of Americano: lyrics, a book, my pumpkin bread, a few gift cards, dime store words from the unpublished wordsmith.
It’s quiet where he is, far from her coming out party surrounded by the hired help, pretty maids all in a row, jaws unlocked for her sickly sweet crumbs. Maybe she will rewrite history. Maybe this time, she will get it right.
The answers are too terrible for either of us to consider.
We close the book on another lonely night.