The fourth sun burns itself away underneath the reflection beside your boat.

You let go of it a few times.

Imagine a favorite song played over and over again for the next few months—every day, a few hours each time. You learn to memorize each pause as though they were your own bones—the painless crackling sound it makes whenever you move from a certain angle—and you remember the only few seconds which makes you cry, and then you don't—you don't cry the same way—not ever, not since the first.

You say the ending is the cruelest by far, the most helpless, because it'll end the same way, and it always will.

The second thing you think of is scabs and scars. You take three or four seconds to say goodbye because you need the first second to mouth your lips over the air that'll be dented with your aching. The wound is the loss and many days later, you go back to scrape it with your fingernails. It doesn't bleed as much as it did or leak in the same trails and lines of blood, and from three days, you lengthen it to five—to seven, then to nine—soon, you forget about it—soon, that is when it heals. (Clumsily, it still comes through.)

That is when it's finally right to let go, to grow weary of the rope—of that tiredness that leaves you sleepless, appetite-less—and realize it's already off your ankles.

The noose on the flecked ground doesn't cast a shadow.