She watches the floating colors from passing cars dance across his face as he sleeps. In the still darkness, she whispers words of love and hopes he hears them, a closeness forged in the unconscious.
    He had been awake for too many weeks straight, stressed self-awareness that made him uneasy in the knees, ill-minded from too many coherent thoughts.
    Now he just sleeps.
She stays awake to measure his breathing, taking note of his heart rate and watching the floating colors of passing cars dancing around his features. The blues crowd in the corners of his quiet mouth, the reds powder his flushed cheeks, the greens slide beneath his eyes, puddles of exhaustion; the yellows drift across his features as a whole, like the sun in a rush to rise.
    She drums her fingers against his chest to match the pattern of inhales, marking an invisible tally each time he smiles from far away.
    Despite sub-conscious separation, this is when she feels closest to him, when she has no knowing of his thoughts, able to create stories of what drifts through his tired mind. Stories in which things are easier and the colors dance across their face yellow, like the sun desperate to rise to bring them back together.


She walked in, a gust of nostalgic summer air, with that inviting smile across her face. The room instantly smelt of her skin, a thin layer of July humidity laid like lace upon her chest. I didn’t say hello, nor did I wave or attempt eye contact–too much time bridged between us. But, I sat there and watched her familiar yet unfamiliar figure flutter about as she ordered her coffee, as she made casual conversation with people in her new life.
   I was hidden in the past, pressed between pages of a book she once recommended, lost in lines on hands that once held hers. How beautiful she was as the sun hit her face, I cannot describe. Age had given her a confidence she flaunted as she walked; hips now full, swung side to side seductively. Had she seen me, I don’t know what I would have said. Foolishly, I may have told her I still loved her, perhaps more then than ever, mesmerized by the way her hair hung down her back in a loose braid, resting at the small of her back.
     Truthfully, I would have apologized for having shown her just how cruel love can be.
   Yet, she never met my gaze, floating out the door as if she were never truly there, leaving me to mull over memories–her scent stuck in my nostrils, her laugh echoing in my ear. I apologized to myself for ever letting her go, a reminder of how cruel love can be.

His mouth is on her mind—his warm breath curling through her messy hair to her ears, tickling the space behind, his tongue, thicker than hers, pressing against her lips, begging for entrance.

The darkness of the room engulfed her vision, his large hand caressed her curves, sparking chills along her spine and back down her stomach. Her stomach, twisted with anxiety and anticipation, shot pains through her chest, urging her to leave, get up and run before her legs were too dumbfounded to move. His voice traveled through the bottles that sat on the kitchen table, the ones she didn’t want to have but did, and reached her ear coated with honey. Come on, you know you came here to be bad. Her head pounded against her skull as the room closed in on them, as he closed in on her, and made the final press of his body against hers: the lips to the neck, the hand to the crotch and the grin that she felt creeping along his face.
She muttered the words, though they felt like lies that hanged in the air. She was stiff, unable to move relax think. Everything swarmed in circles, producing an unbearable screeching only she heard. He kept speaking words she couldn’t decipher over the noise, and as he pressed his chest to hers, the room began to spin quicker, threatening to bring up every thought in her stomach. The heat became intolerable as he peeled the layers from her skin, kicking her ankles while removing her bottoms. The pinching of his zipper pressed against her bare thigh, his breathe–the scent of summer and the breeze of leaves beginning to die, the light from the kitchen hitting him at just the right angle. His weight suffocated her, she felt her face flush, and out of nowhere, she spoke:
I… I’m sorry.

The words are too late, though, and he has blown away like the seasons on his tongue.