She had left her heart nailed to the bedroom wall right above the light switch, with it she left a short note and a long letter. On his nightstand next to the alarm clock was a shoe box (the box that once held her favorite pair of shoes, a gift from him on their thirteenth anniversary) full of photographs. Thier life and crimes together had been well documented. She had captured each moment like a seedy detective hired to snap the lewd acts of a presidential affair. Hiding between each picture and in every nook and small open space was the laughter and the tears and the hopes and dreams and silent heartache and love and lust and loss they had shared and experienced together.
Somedays he would wake up and forget she was gone and had been gone for some years now. He would roll over and expect to run his fingers through her hair, only to catch a glimpse of her ghost walking out the door. Then his eyes would fall to the alarm clock, then the show box, then the letter and note, and then, finally her heart nailed to the bedroom wall. He had memorized the short note and long letter and every photograph and all the giggles and laughing and every tear that every fell. He read them again anyway. He pulled out picture after picture, each still shot played out a movie of the moment captured within.
He laid it all out on top of his rustled sheets and blanket. The unpublished book of forevers end that now only he could read and understand. He left it all there as he climbed out of bed, hoping maybe her ghost would read the story while he was gone. That maybe she could laugh and cry and remember too. He hoped she would see it as an act of kindness and love and not an attempt to make her feel remorse or guilt. What had been done was done. If she needed forgiveness he had it, if she needed understanding he had that too... whatever she may want or need he would give her. He still loved her, as fiercely and loyal as he ever did or could.
His feet started to carry him out of the room and he paused with his hand over the light switch and below her heart. He stared at her heart for a moment, watching and listening to it beat against the wall. It was a small movement and barely the whisper of a beat. It spoke to him softly and gently and he knew that wherever she may have gone and whatever may have happened next, that still somehow, she loved him too.
His fingertip flipped his bedroom lights off and then he pulled the door closed. The room was dark and her ghost sat in the middle of the bed looking over the photos and letter and note. She read the story he had left out for her to read and she laughed and cried and remembered. She wrote a note on his pillow, one that he would read that night in his dreams and read only once. He would not remember what it said and he woukd not wake up again and forget she was gone. He wouldn't catch another glimpse of her ghost walking out his bedroom door. She was gone and no amont of her haunting his memories or no amount of him haunting her memory would change anything. She looked over her final note and crossed all her "t's" and dotted all her "i's" and sealed the letter with a kiss. She smiled her dead weary smile and floated up through the ceiling... gone for good, no coming back.