My marriage was left unfinished.
Even with a divorce one would assume it would be finished, concluded, ended. But when someone leaves with obscene reasons cloaked in rationality and justification, you are left with the lingering emptiness of something left unfinished.
“No. This is not quite right,” you think to yourself – only there is nothing you can do to make it right. Like a novel nearly completed, a painting almost perfected, you sit and you look, trying to figure it out, trying to round the sharp corners, trying to find the end to complete the incomplete sentence.
But you can’t.
When he left he took the paper, the ink, and the paint.
Categories: Literary Shenanigans