A friend texts to say that my ex insignificant other died. For close to a dozen years, he slogged through my life. Jumping to another the channel whenever I’d sing with the radio. Only gift he ever gave, a BB gun which he kept. Didn’t like holding hands or kissing or saying, I love you. He didn’t really, love me, that is, but still I stayed. Summer mornings we’d walk the pasture, searching for signs of deer. I spent afternoons with him, digging for spearpoints on the ridge. I kept looking for artifacts that held meaning for someone somewhere. He wanted no obituary, no memorial service, no marker, no mourners. I read the text again, turning each word, unearthing nothing significant.
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