Darling (Always)
What lies behind those inscrutable eyes, darling? The longer I watch you gravitate towards that which glitters, the more I yearn for you to care why it does. For long as I can remember, I have watched you pursue the bright with no care for whether it was foil or fluorite—have you truly no concern but that it sparkled?
Did you know, darling, it is but a myth? That those of the corvine persuasion are drawn to shiny objects? In fact, they are likelier to be frightened than fascinated, and so the metaphor I was so ready to launch was a failure before it ever took flight.
Nonetheless, darling, won’t you come home to roost for a while? Sit by me and survey the treasures you’ve already gathered. And know that when you return from your inevitable next pursuit, there they’ll still be, lustre dulled only by your seeking eyes.
Rain
All Tuesday, it poured, as if some intentional attempt to dissipate the palpable ache that had hung heavy in the air for the past few weeks or years. At 4:37pm, I stood by the open window in my living room and watched a slate sky weep relentlessly, recalling how you used to say It’s raining like a bastard with a glint in your eyes, the first time simply because it was part of your vernacular, and every time after because you loved the way it made me cackle. As droplets ricocheted off the sill onto my fingers, I thought about the time I touched your face and asked about the melancholy on the edge of that glint. You smiled then, and with sangfroid I had encountered again only in one other person, replied—I’m afraid it’s just the rain.
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