The heart knows its own bitterness, and a stranger does not share in its joy. Pr 14:10

That late summer rain tapped on the window like a timer. Now I just write letters to you that I never send to a home I was never a part of, I just press them into pages of Bibles in drawers of cheap motel rooms - Proverbs is my favorite - and write stories about the people who will find them months from now. And I play this game where I pretend that you pretend you give a damn. But just like leaves in autumn that show their true colors right before they die, you crystallized everything into shades of ruby and sienna when you slid into car, not bothering to look up as you mumbled goodbye.