When you burn down the bridge, there’s no water under it.

The ghosts of you remain.

Little half-used jars of goop. Shampoo bottles with masking tape tops-a sure sign of too much packing & moving.

You flicker in sometimes on a screen. I’m not always there. When I am, I sometimes wish I wasn’t.

You chose your path. It was clearly marked, with no room for others to walk with you.

It’s too late to try this road, this freeway of other drivers you turned away from.

You want others to share your joy. Mostly what you share are lies.

The ones who love you, loved you… They hold the grudges you swear you’re unable to support. Just as well. Most are against you.

Not matter how hard it rains, Mother Nature hasn’t been able to wash all that pain away; you left such heaps of it everywhere.

The scars will heal. And one day I’ll get around to tossing those toiletries.