pSyche It was October, as I recall. The clouds scurried fitfully across the sky, seeking a hiding place they couldn't find. You had that look in your eye. The look that said you were going away again. I should have known. I should have guarded myself more carefully. But I guess, somewhere within myself, I knew all along. Hope is a tricky thing, is it not? Cell phones are too. You have to know when to turn them off, or they ruin everything. Three minutes later, as I hurriedly broke off conversations with the caller, you were gone.

You never even said goodbye.
what's it to you?
who go