She left his boots on the deck.
She knew that he was leaving – it was time.
His eyes had emptied, deep pools drained.
She knew the exact moment when he decided, as his eyes caught the stars and reflected them, their liquid vitality returned. He left her, over and over and over again.
She felt the concussive thud of the rocket exhaust from almost a thousand miles away.
She looked away from the pillar of smoke pushing him away from her.
She turned away from heartache.
His boots were still on the deck.
Written for this week’s Friday Fictioneers’ photo prompt.
Comments and criticism (especially criticism) always welcome!