It was the future he mourned

She was sweet. She smelled sweet and tasted that way, too. Kisses like spun sugar.

But she left, suddenly. Over the long winter break, she hurriedly had to move away. Not having his number at his parent’s place, she left  a brief message for him with a friend, who forgot all about it until nearly Homecoming.

By then, the numbers had changed and the letters he sent came back, pristine and marked  ‘return to sender, addressee not at this location’.

He was not sure how he should feel. Abandoned, lost or forgotten-similar in tone but not the same, those varying shades of pitch.

She eventually slid to the back of his head, stood behind his thoughts, not in front of all of them.

Then one bright morning, he opened the paper and read that she died. A car crash, that ruined the life of her family, two times over.

He sat down.

He wept.

He wept for her. For those who survived her.  For his sadness, his frustration.

But selfishly, he shed copious tears over the hard and pointed fact that he would not have a chance at life with a woman like her. Instead, he would  be tied briefly to women who just need a man to validate them, women who were bored and he was a passing fancy, women who only wanted him to toil for their needs.

He would not have a life of sunshine, fresh flowers on the table, candles at night and nothing but stillness under starry skies. No laughter shared over breakfast, nor shared glances of contentment over the head of his first-born.

When she left, she took all of that with her. Leaving him with wet eyes and broken apart, ragged-edge dreams

A few moments of silence

Sitting across the man-the skinny one with the cheap shoes-who hops on the train exactly at 5:02. The stop is near the starting point, so he is on time, like the driver who is anxious to get rid of us all and settle like a beloved blanket in front of his television.

Clearing my throat. Saying to the guy, as he stands, “Your eyes are clear and cold. Wish you could take that and spread it, share it with some of the guys I know.”

He is startled then amused. As the train leaves him on the platform, his eyes warm, a just bit, in his confusion.

Later, I think of him. As the lamb loses its hold on the present and crosses over into stillness, it screams.

I wonder if my eyes are as cold as his, that man on train, with life spilling past my fingers, leaving puddles of memories and dreams. Or confused, as the blood and stink  burn my nose.