There are two sides to every coin. Two sides to every tale. A blind man holding the trunk of an elephant may describe the trunk beautifully but miss the entire animal. He’s still not wrong in what he tells you.

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I often wonder what your side is. I don’t think it is a nice story. I can’t imagine it is. I messed a lot of things up.

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I pulled away.

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I stopped talking.

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I stopped fighting.

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I coasted for what felt like forever.

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I kissed her.

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I can’t imagine your description of the elephant is all that beautiful.

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I can’t say I blame you.

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It all started so long ago. I tried my best to pinpoint when. I thought if I could pinpoint when we could go back and fix it. That backfired in my face.

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I held a grudge.

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I didn’t let go.

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I should remember the happy times.

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Each new day holds a new revelation that you won’t ever come back.

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I don’t think I was the only one not talking, hiding, escaping. You moved too quickly through it to not have already had one foot out the door.

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I wonder when you stopped loving me. I don’t think it was because of November. I wonder if it was sooner. I wonder how you’d tell it.

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I look back and see how it all stitched together for me. The years, the months, the events, the blooming, and fading of friendships. It didn’t start with a kiss. It didn’t start because of a job. It didn’t start with a friendship. It didn’t start with her at all. What a beautiful easy scapegoat though.

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I wonder what blemishes and bumps live on your side of the elephant. I wonder what your palm finds and can’t describe. I wonder what each fold, rough spot, and blemish feels like under your touch. I wonder what you linger on and what you go right over.

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I’m sure your description isn’t lovely.

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I’m sure I’m not painted into a tragedy of beauty.

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You aren’t wrong.