I saw you lean over and put the folded piece of paper into her pocket. It was as if you planned to do so all along.

You didn’t see me see you. You didn’t care that anyone saw, I don’t think.

And it’s on days when I think I’ve forgotten about it that I wonder what you wrote to her. What words you pulled from the deepest innards of your being to bury with her. So she would always remember. And so that you would, too.

Morbidly, I wondered if I, too, would do the same, but probably not since I would be paranoid that someone would dig their grave, see my most personal expressions when they weren’t meant to ever be seen by the human eye. Meant only for the soul of the person buried. Not you.

I wonder if the letter is long, written in script or in shaky letters. Perhaps the ink is dotted with your tears.

But I am not that close with you. So I will never ask. But one never knows. The alcohol makes it easier to come alive, be daring, be bold. Sometimes too bold.

I told my shameful story to a someone today. How I got behind the wheel. How I didn’t do harm. I laughed it off. Not me. I’m too innocent. How could I get caught? My record has to stay clean. Just like I have to stay on track with everything. It’s what’s expected, engrained in my core. Without the path, I am no where. And I haven’t been down that road before. It could lead me to my death.

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