The girls trickle in one at a time, congregating for their customary visitation. My friends keep their distance even though I’d gladly have them close. The sullen expressions and awkward silence feel wrong.
Words come slowly: first regrets, then jokes and memories of better times. I love their laughter but prefer their silence. I’m still the glue that holds them together. Now I’m also the inevitable.
I’d happily join in on their banter, but I can’t speak their language. When they leave with the sun in their eyes and the wind on their faces, here I will lie, going to pieces.
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