Washed

Beads of sweat drip from his body.
His stomach churns,
His heart beats hard in his throat.
The white paper crumbles in his hand.
The black ink stains the skin on his fingers.
"She's leaving," he suddenly says out loud;
"She's gone."
Years of memories begin filling his mind.
Isn't it funny that the good times always seem
To overshadow the bad in moments like these?
He walks to the sink and washes the ink off his hands.

KW '12

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