She was at the end of her rope, he at the end of his string. And, oh, there was their fuses; that was another thing. They both liked Dr. Seuss and greeting cards that rhymed, but he could never bear to hear the stories of her mime. She had a mime, you see, instead of having mom. And as he stroked his beard and thought, she told him he was wrong.
A ball of orange yarn between them, on the sheets where they once laid. Two glasses on the nightstand filled up with Minute Maid. Bacon on the fryer, eggs whipped in a bowl. Breakfast for the tired, and supper for the bold.
But uneaten went this food, undrunk this orange juice, for the rope and string and yarn, my friend, they wove into a noose.
Now who swung first, you ask, but I can never tell. For I am sworn to secrecy, until they toll the bells. Until they toll the bells for me, these ghosts that I once knew. Until they toll the bells for me, till orange turns to blue.
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