You can’t wind your watch back to last year, exactly one year ago, and stop me from walking out. First of all, you don’t wear a watch. Second of all, my watch is broken. It’s a prop. It’s a clunky piece of metalwear like a razor or a set of sleeping spoons. Remember, we were spoons? Well, you can’t stop anything, not me, certainly not yourself from calling when it’s late, when you burn off any fuel that was left from our fire. That flame burst up the curtains, burned up the room, burnt our little house down. I escaped. I sent capital letters for capital offenses. I wrote your matchbook; I was your matchbook. But you know, she’s the dish, I mean it, and she’s running away with you. It’s okay. Don’t look back. I’m not roped to the railroad or stuck in the window, the train puffing smoke, the house licked in flames. I’m not Sodom or Gomorrah or rowing Charon’s dingy. See, the dish ran away with the spoon and they never looked back. So don’t look back, okay, because it’s not worth it, it’s just ashes, and I’m gone.

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