Here in the fermata. Sitting on the couch and watching television. Here in the fermata of our last days, eating microwaved mac and cheese and homemade spinach and strawberry salad, like the two halves of our life for the past five years.

The days ran on like measures, down and up the scales of depression and peacefulness, anxieties and success. We’ve cycled through three houses, twice as many jobs, twice as many girlfriends. Always returning. I don’t know what home means without you.

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