He brushed his hand softly against the cloth of the shirt. He gripped it, tugging at it ever so slightly. He felt the bumps of the ensignia rising from it. He smelt the cologne that lingered on it, no matter how many times he washed it. It was the last piece. The last memory. He had thrown the pictures out. He had tore up the cards and letters.

But the shirt remained. It hung in the closet, pushed to the back. Placed behind the hoodies and jackets where you couldn't see it. But he knew it was there. It was such a strong reminder that it was palpabile. He could almost touch the memories it envoked, almost grab it like he grabbed the shirt itself.

It had come in the mail one day with a card. He sent it to him so that whenever he missed him, he could wear the shirt, and smell him and be reminded how much he loved him. It was almost like magic, how it never lost the smell of his cologne. It was a subtle, yet confident smell. Much like the person who it reminded him of.

He took it off it's hanger. He folded it carefully, contemplating if he was really ready to move on. 3 years was a long time to love someone. It's a connection that isn't only forged by love, but tempered by time. Yet even the strongest of substances can be broken, melted, shattered. Everything has a shatterpoint, and fate had found theirs.

He walked down the stairs, slowly, but not with hesitation. He was sure of every step he took. He was strong. Strong not only in body, but in spirit. He was decisive and sure. Even now, when his heart had shattered, he would pick up the pieces, wash them off, and come back for more. Not to him though. They would never speak again.

He couldn't be friends with him. They had never been friends. They had been lovers. They were passionate about each other. Their love was like a wildfire that burnt through their body and mind. It enriched them, sustained them. But if he had to let it go, he had to douse the flame and remove the wood. Never again would he allow it to light again.

He was not sad however. Love was as much a teacher as a feeling. And no one ever got it completely right the first time. He was a patient student. One filled with resolved to live this life without jade and self pity. He could take a hit, no matter how hard the punch. The sun would shine again, even if today it was black as night.

He opened the door to the garage and walked to the garbage bin. He lifted the lid and for a moment he stopped and stared into the black space that filled it. Isn't that the same as life? We jump without seeing. We walk through, even though we don't know what is to come. We perservere. We survive. We learn. We always learn.

And so he let it fall into the dark. He watched the blue fade to black and land softly at the bottom. And he sighed, like a weight had finnaly lifted off his chest. He would start anew, and this time he would do better.

He walked away, back into his house. And the garbage man came, and took the shirt away. But the flame somehow remained. Day by day though, the flame in his chest grew smaller and smaller. Sometimes he could feel it start to grow, when he was alone and contemplative. But he would dampen it again and again. He wasn't sure it would ever go away, but he was sure in his resolve.

A new day would come and he would be ready. The sun would rise in the east and he would look not to the day that is gone rather to the day that was coming.