The Letter

It was clear that it was too late for her. However much she had meant to him, she had burnt those bridges. Bridges made of paper.

It was type written, as if he didn’t trust his hand not to shake and give away the emotion. The words were cool, well thought out. A methodical goodbye.

He left no forwarding address, no number. Cutting the umbilical all over again, but this time there was no joy.

He signed off with no expression of love, no softness, no chink in the armour.

The letter was the only thing we found on her when the body was brought in. A Jane Doe found in a back alley, all curled up in childs pose, syringe still embedded. Eyes wide, searching for him.