she left his book in the back of an airplane seat, the same way she threw that bible out the window on the way to the coast, the same way she threw that necklace off a bridge on the edge of capitol hill. the necklace she got on a trip to LA, when the whole world was sunshine and birds and backstage and malibu coastlines. when it all looked like it was working, until the trip home proved otherwise.
she likes to leave things. things like to leave her.
she left the secondhand pendant that she used to wear to bed hanging on a hook in a restroom of a restaurant, not long after she saw the shimmer was gone from her lover's eye. favorite t-shirts in hotel room beds, cherished hats in garbage cans, wounded hearts on faraway shorelines.
he is no exception. he's no different than the rest.