mourning thoughts

She awakes every morning with the same idea -- it’s time to start over, time to move on – and lies, there, until she manages to convince herself that she can make her way through one more day, and then another and another and another until a new week passes into old and she feels the relief, again that she’s not put waste to everything they’d built, or worked at building. He is not a bad man, though probably not as good as she’d convinced herself through the years. In fact, he’s pretty much like she, she’d admit, struggling to make sense of who he is and what he is and where he is. And there is honor and dignity in that, for both of them. But what continues to nag is the idea that there’s something more she’s missing, and maybe, probably, him, too. And life is short is what everyone tells her. So, she decides, as she has before, that tonight will be the night. Tonight she will tell him that she is leaving. Then she will. Or not. Her bags will be packed, but it will depend on the moment. Again. For the umpteenth time. She laughs at herself, sadly, for she does know what she will do.