I don't see Atlantic anymore. Only sometimes when I sleep, in the worst ways and the best.
I sold our place.
I packed up my things, got rid of the things I didn't need and left.
Wiping the tear that slowly made its way down my face; I said goodbye to him.
Goodbye my love.
YOU ARE READING
Cold
Short Story#27- flowers 11/21/18 #748- poetry We had this sick fantasy that we could be in love forever. That no one could tear us apart. Well, except ourselves.
