The leaves on the trees have become smudges, merely a backdrop I look right through. I see nothing. I see everything. Everything. You weren’t able to reach beyond the now into tomorrow. You stay in the past and try for today, but never tomorrow. It’s raining outside, smearing the hillside further. My blotchy pink cheeks are wet. Not from the rain, though. No, they are slick from the storm inside. The first rumble of thunder in the distance came the first time you turned your back. It’s all on me, baby, it’s just me. This is who I am, you said, denying my right to hold you while you were hurting. Your vow was: in health and in the good times, I am yours. When I am strong. But when the winds rose, you withered, folding in on yourself, refusing my hand, my arms, my love. Well now the thunder rolls on. The storm rages. And I will cry for us, alone.
tara caribou | ©2020
Read this and more in my poetry book, Four.