They just stop … Full-Stop. As if some maestro is conducting all cessation of contact hence forth. Much more so like a forced possession than a harmless ghost. Into this cyclical bin tainted with remnants of memories that build on the inside with residue as it churns that which was never said while it oils gears in the mind with voices chorusing all that was never meant to be.
The soul that departs us all in the sudden death of any kind of relationship knows best. Through the soul, our eyes do see, our mind comprehends that which we meant and our stomach staves off the acidity of emptiness by vomiting up truth.
Still. They stop. Full-Stop. They drew the lines. Between us.
And, yet, we managed to color outside of them.