 |
|||||
|
|||||
|
|||||
The eighth night I saw you, I realized what love was.Because there was no eighth night.
Because on the eighth night, all there was was a clumsy sun that bobbed and floundered at the edge of the horizon, unsure if it belonged in the company of the clouds that ribbed the twilight sky or of the darkness that churned beneath the shadowed hills. And on the eighth night, the invisible moon had plowed its way across the sky, escorted by a frenzy of rainclouds and bubbling stars, sone long dead and others merely getting there. And it was on the eighth night, that raindrops hovered in the air, like bombs caught in mechanically insufficient airplanes, wanting to drop, but couldn't.
It was also on the eighth night that I stood alone under the streetlights, watching my shadow tick and flicker around me. And it was there that I heard the pounding of my heart under the brittle bars of my ribs, throbbing and eager and afraid. And it was there that I felt the bittersoft pulsing of loneliness echoing in my head.
And, on that eighth night, I also tasted the acidic vomit of apologies sneaking up my throat.
I didn't apologize.
And so.
Love.
Is the sum of all the things that.
You regret you didn't do.
|
|||||
|
|||||
|
|||||