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 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