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Rain comes without invitation to soak this tired world. It’s barely stopped for days. The wound never hemorrhaging, pouring, pouring moon red. Pain of new growth, every nerve taking its first breath - a cry. She says it shouldn’t last long. Agony shouldn't. Pin-pricks though, probably forever. You didn't need her to tell you that. Leaving back to the street. No umbrella, clothes soaking through. Every parallel place, mirrored appendage, has stung as long as you remember. Since the first unity sign. Since the river’s reflection. Since clumsy lips and thrown punches. Since chasing legs and now these empty places where a holding hand should go. Blackline tattoos inked by fate, blown open in defiance. And yet made nothing but a new match.
But he doesn't let her fix his arm. Let it be the punishment he bears for all his misgivings, that’s what he has to say. Breaks his end of the chain and turns his back on the story.
It is a while before you cross paths again. They sent him to a concrete cell where he served three months. No visitors. You hike to the hill above and try to peer through the bars. You don’t see anything. These days pass rabidly. Melting together until in the distance you see him; raven faced and sweeping towards home. And he smiles. He really does! Silent is the language of the orphans. Illegible are the promises. But standing golden - unmistakable - is the trust. Like a castle of the future with a room for everyone. Enemies turned to skeletons beside the jewels in the basement.
Quiet are the words that pull you to the valley. Down to the makeshift sea where history flows downstream. "I'm almost surprised,” he says. “Every time I see it. That it runs clear after all the blood.” He smiles again. Rare and gleaming like a ruby. And you are surprised he can see anything clear with all the red in his eyes. And how they sink so deep into his head. And hide behind the bolts of hair. But he could always see everything for what it was. No use lying. So you don't say anything of the blood and try to stop playing matching games in your head with body parts. The game can’t be won anymore. He's all different.
All the edges rounding off as yours sharpen up. Eyes down, like he's lost all his reasons to fight. And you don't like it. Your reasons only grow taller. You know he's going to leave again. This is no peace and there is no winning. You try not to lay your hands on him. You try and let him keep his solace. He starts to stand and without thinking you grab hard at his ankle. Your fingernails dig right in. He doesn't say anything. He sits back down. Embarrassed you take your hand back and lean your weight on it.
“You’re going to leave,” you finally say. You say it like a friend.
"Yeah,” he says. And it sounds like an apology.
The moment, this remorse, dropped like a glass. Its pieces land in the dirt. They start catching the sun and make the landscape glow. You stick your hand into the water. It's warm. The white fish startle and swim away.
He puts his hand in the water too. Lets the current pull it downstream and sink to bottom. Where it sits touching yours, silent for many agonizing minutes, until the sun is gone. And you cry. Sniffling quietly to the stars. When he says, “Well, it's getting late,” you pull your hand back to rest upon your leg. You don't look at him.
“See you,” he says. You don’t look at him. He stands silent, not leaving. So you look at him. He looks at you.
"See you," you say. Wiping at your eyes.
"I'm coming back,” he says, turning and walking. “I’m coming back,” he calls, this time into the night, like he is greeting it after some time in the daylight. Until all you can see is the back of his head. And you follow it down the sky until it disappears into black.
Six months he doesn't come back. These days bleed slowly through the stitching. Hope dies every hour on the hour. Love beats its feeble wings when stories come in on the wind. He’s been seen herding goats. He's been seen in a bell tower, yanking the chain to toll the time. It wilts back down in dry spells. Begging to hear anything at all - even of indecencies. Even of death. You ignore the knocking at the door. You press your hands over your ears and burrow under covers. When silence returns, you touch yourself, dreaming of burning hands and scarlet eyes. This body of yours grows older, grows lonelier every night.
Another flower laid at your doorstep. She is persistent. Dying for you when there is no reason. Tying herself to the train tracks. Someday you're going to have to marry her. Soon there will be no other way forward.