Keys, they’re on the desk.
But Dianna’s been dead for five years.
I’d gone to her funeral.
I’d shed tears.
Someone is playing a horrible fucking trick on me.
This is like getting a Facebook friend request from someone you murdered (hoping no one would ever finger you for it).
The keys spread the table with a postbox looking key, a garage key, and a trailer key all on the same silver ring.
She’s dead, though! (Right?)
The keys, they’re mine.
I’m…I’m dead. (Aren’t I?)
I’d fallen through the cracks of life left unlived.
I’d been stranded here, making signals, hoping she’d save me.
I held my breath, begging her twice, crossed my fingers for good measure.
I’m oceans away from the person I was before she met me.
The keys, they’re mine. I might as well be dead.
I may as well shed this selflessness I’d cocooned around my neck.
I’m…I’m not dead; I’m just getting over heartbreak, but it feels nothing less than a shot to the heart.
The keys, she’d returned them to my heart.
I’d figured it out; she told me to drop dead, not that she’s gone.
I stared at the keys, but they say nothing.
I load my car, searching for the key to start the car, searching for any trace of her.
(Be a sport and check out my Wattpad page)
(© 2020 Andrew Cyr)