It was as if something was taken and used, leaving us bereft. Somehow, we were not expecting it. We expected our life together to take root and grow, bloom into possibility. Maybe, though, the earth of our time was too stony, too coarse for the early fragile roots to take hold. Our love, when we transplanted it to this new life, to this new marriage and new house, withered and collapsed.
Even the water of possibility, did little to revive it. We lay there together on opposite sides of a bed suddenly far too big, no longer entangled around each other and growing towards the sun of the future. We turned away from each other. She looked out of the window, the curtains blowing in the breeze like some invitation to escape, while I turned to watch the slow hands creeping around the clock until it was safe to get away.
Neither of us ever knew what had gone wrong. We just knew what had once been as familiar as our own reflections in the mirror was now a stranger staring in silence back at us from across the other side of the table.
We never knew what had gone wrong, what had poisoned this new life and left it dying, all we knew was that it was time to dig it all up and start again somewhere new, apart and alone.
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