Oh, how it feels
like it was only yesterday
when we were sharing
our dreams together,
and now there you are,
living your dream
One day, we were painting a future together. The next, I was watching it all burn.
“I used to love you so much,” he whispered.
To him, we were already in past tense, a lost cause. To me, he was tomorrow wrapped in promises.
He stood up to leave and I couldn’t find the right words to make him stay. Words, I never came up short with him. Him, who stripped off skin from bones from soul.
I grabbed his sweater from the foot of my bed, the one I wear to sleep every night, ran to him.
“Here, take it,” I cried, tears becoming rivers on cheeks. For a minute there, I caught a glimpse of the man who would fight to keep us together.
Without a word, he turned his back on me and sobbed, shoulders shaking and feet walking out the door.
How did it come to this – love, not being enough, for two people to stay together?
Outside, I could hear the sirens of a fire truck. Somewhere out there, a house was burning.
Also, here. In the quiet.
There was the slightest of touch on my eyelashes, it could almost just be the wind. And then, on my cheek, trailing down to my collarbone. Even with my eyes closed, my skin remembered those hands.
“Morning, sleepyhead,” a voice whispered, gentle like a lullaby. My heart hammered in response, twice as fast, as if it hasn’t beaten for years.
I opened my eyes, expecting to wake up from a dream. Instead, I woke up to a pair of blue eyes.
“You stayed,” I said mostly to myself, in wonder, poking his arm to feel if this was real. It was.
“Did I say or do anything stupid?” I asked, as flashbacks from last night came to me in waves: a birthday party, him, drowning feelings with too many shots, the drive home, throwing up somewhere along the way, hazy.
He shrugged, “Nah.”
I sighed a breath of relief.
Then, he broke into a smile. “I missed you, too.”
I bought one of those creativity journals, and on the fourth day, the page whispered: “Write a beginning.”
And all I could think was you
and the night you reappeared
in front of me, like a dream.
But the page also screamed: “Write an ending.”
And it’s you again,
and her voice calling you
hers, and hers alone.
I want to scream –
‘I love you, stay
and we’ll make this better’
but all this mouth
can offer are
thunderstorms and waves
that extinguish tomorrows,
always slamming doors.