Pieces of you

“‘It didn’t rain on Saturday.’
'It didn’t rain for you, maybe, but it always rains for me. The sky shatters and rains shards of glass.’
'That sounds very painful.’
'No, it sounds beautiful.’”

"Rescue me," I say.
"What?"
Let's dance together, speak together, compose sentences that will bridge the space between my chair and your coach, between my sterile white dress shirt and your unbuttoned blouse.
"Nothing," I hurriedly say.

"When I stop at a stop sign, I don't think about the distance I've crossed," he says. "I just wish l never had to stop."

What I could no longer hear with my ears I did with my mind, and this was enough to keep me sleepless until sunrise.

It didn’t rain for you, maybe, but it always rains for me. The sky shatters and rains shards of glass.

I hid my fingers, but the pain lingered with the last chord.

At times, it seemed like my mother would cook just to cook; I would eat just to eat; and we would be there, just to be there.

So here I am,
Choosing to kick away the ladder
So that I may remain at your side.

I understand your solitude.
I see your shadow.

But through this craft, through my love for writing,
I discovered a world outside of the small windowless one
I had built for myself.
A world of soft spoken beauty.