We stood out on the open field, gazing up at the gray sky. “Looks like rain,” you said. I peered down at my hands, finding them folded together. Your lip started to tremble and I started to say grace. We stood there together, both knowing it was going to storm.
I had bad dreams about beating down crooked paths, eventually finding my way back to a home where you’d be waiting for me on the front porch, you and your fickle heart. It was the sacredness of it that left me shell shocked, the brutal honesty of it all. How badly I wanted to be someone with a higher sense of purpose, a reason to live for someone other than myself. We tried, dear god, did we try.
I still haven’t learned to walk away when the air starts to fill with smoke. I never get out, not until the flames engulf the walls and the roof starts caving in.
Two weeks, no word. You had your life to lead, and I had mine. The silence permeated the edge we stood on, like cracks in the dry desert ground. Two weeks, still a drought. I had no choice but to pray for rain.
At night, the city noises buzz around me, the lights flicker softly in the distance, and I fall asleep with the thought that it’s all going to be okay. We waged a war, I had to wave the white flag. With broken bones and shattered hearts, it was finally time to retreat.
I gaze up at the gray sky, and I think of what we could have been. I hope, one day, we both grow flowers from the holes we dug in each other's hearts. Maybe it was always supposed to be like this, maybe we were just drowning all along.