Wrong Answer.

I eye the door, anticipate the walk, release my last breath of courage before I turn the knob. I look into his face, searching, pleading that he might understand what I'm asking of him. But he has it so well guarded that the only way in was out that door. I hesitate, not wanting to walk away. For I know the second I walk out that door, I will never look back. I'll always wonder about that last facial expression...but wonder is all it will ever be. He won't ask me to stay, but he won't let go of my hand. I ask him one last question. He gives me one last answer and I could feel the scar run through my veins; the same veins that once loved him as much as the love it carried. Wrong answer, says my heart.