The Ballad of Silky Black

She was always leaving. Leaving whenever shit got weird or stressful…and shit always got weird or stressful because hey, human beings. It was a system that didn’t make practical sense, but was totally reliable: You got about 6 months, about a year max if she moved into your place. No guarantees. Should have come with a user’s manual. A warning of some kind. User testimonials. Clearly visbale star rating like a laminated x-mas light halo around her head. Didn’t matter what was going with the other person; in their life, in their head, in their event horizon. Forecast delivers about a week of stormy weather, then a sudden bye. Broken hearts, ruined souls, dismembered bodies resulting, primarily in places where the exact opposite used to be. Smoking craters. Long nights. Waking up at odd hours. Support groups forming at the community level to let the motherfucking healing begin. Ok, that’s fine I guess. Your world. Your prerogative. Nobody owes anybody anything. Why stick around if you are the unhappy one? That’s always the real question, isn’t it? The rest of you just play with it and try it on pop songs and in the deeper subtext of what goes on in everyday life, but it’s not like anything really requires any obligation. Ok, fine. I see how it is now. You were only obeying your conscience, listening to your heart, but it would sorta help if you had either one in the first place.