Dear Leah, the lights are off in the bathroom again

Dear Leah, the lights are off in the bathroom again

I am no stranger to the unexplainable. You know as well as I do that your next of kin just know. We know, and you know, and now you knew.

The lights are off in the bathroom again.

I can’t explain it, though the menfolk say it’s just coincidence. They don’t see the spark in the meaning of it all, and maybe those outside the triangle of us don’t see it either.

The three-point paragons of primitive premonition.
We preach it to each other in lieu of that look.

That look that others give us when we share what we know.

When one has been let go, dissolved into the ether of no longer, what happens to the two between? The two tipped over with grief?

Nothing.

I am no stranger to the preambles in my brain, the precognition of the mundane.

It’s all just coincidence, afterall. Unexplainable coincidence.

The lights are off in the bathroom again.

But you left the light on in my closet, didn’t you?

Didn’t you?

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