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Dust


He looked among the dust and rubble, the dead soldiers, and declared it over. There is no rubble, no dust and he never really said it; he never believed it. He imagined it: a fairy tale, a storybook ending, a story that never really ended— the end of it all; a cottage with a short white fence and a tree house built by hand in the backyard.

He dreams this.

No, that’s a lie. He’ll never allow himself to dream most of the time. He thinks of stars and deserts and freedom. He falls asleep as he thinks and she becomes his dream. Her eyes, like stars but faded, her skin, in complete contrast to the desert. Like his, but not really.

Like love, if only.

He doesn’t allow himself to think of her that way, but he does it all the time. Like she thinks of him— hardly ever. She’ll be the death of him; his fantasies that are never entertained would swallow him in pieces. But his dreams won’t kill him, she will.

She swore.

She lied.

She’d never hurt him physically. Just his soul, on accident. On purpose.

Always on purpose.

She doesn’t love him, that’s what he believes. That’s what he wishes he believed, but he saw the glimmer. He thought he saw the glimmer of emotions returned. His eyes deceived him; he isn’t sure. Her eyes are dead. They don’t glimmer anymore, now that it’s over.

It’ll never be over.

Her eyes are dust.

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