Her absence

I placed a hand gently on the counter

It was made of some dark wood, mahogany or 

oak. She would've known, and if she'd told me, 

I would've remembered. Maybe.

  

I wandered to the circle table,

It was made of glass, which was stupid and 

unnecessarily odd. But she liked that. 

She liked being able to see my legs.

  

It was a single sheet. It lay perfectly flat. 

I wanted it to be crinkled, like she'd clenched the paper as she wrote. 

But it was perfect. And white. One smudge.

  

She'd written me a mile, twisted and 

cut into her jagged writing. The words were square to start, 

Growing more circular with every letter. She had signed, 

with her stupid S that looked like an f. 

  

famantha. 

  

How silly.

The End

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