The end, I would think later, was dismally inadequate. It was the shutdown and apathetic rejection of one and the snapping of plastic between the thumb and forefinger of the other. I suppose it’s too easy to get used to the idea of unrequited love and too easy to be at peace with the thought that it’s all I’ll ever get. So sometimes, late at night, I’ll sit on my bed of choice (because there’s space between my fingers, room for choice), arms under my head, eyes to a foreign ceiling or sky - depending on where I am - and wonder who forgot to mention that the world ends not with a bang, but with a whisper.
