We never followed through with touch. Much less, a kiss. In the ebb and flow of wanting, we’d stare a little longer at each other, smile when no one was looking- I have never been so bold and afraid at the same time. Mother must never know, the way my heart would race at the sight of your smile. How tenderly you’d speak to me, how we made our own language from sheer desire- if only to stop ourselves from combusting at the mention of each other’s names.
You called me rain, because to describe it with your hands, you could pretend to wave. I called you sand and to describe it I’d just… kick the earth.
The morning I walked past your home and found a truck full of your family’s belongings driving away with you at the back, a well of apologies suspended in your eyes, I ran harder than I ever had and fell into my mother’s arms, gasping.
“What is wrong?”
“What is wrong with you?!”, she panicked
I couldn’t speak. I just kicked the earth again and again and again.
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