It would be wrong. It would be wrong because the promise told would ever be the promise given. And so, the life that she thought she could have, the one of sea breezes, of peeling paint, of something sweet smelling from the back porch each day, of lazy cats and bad coffee, would never make itself real for her. The days of leisure, of wandering, of reading and writing, of dreaming would soon be over, replaced by a waitress apron, a jar of barely enough. And when the weariness, when the tiredness sets in, then so too does the hate, so too does the spite. And so, do you see? Do you see what i gave up to be with you. And years later, when trees were no longer birch and sycamore, but other trees that did not seem to sprout from mythical books, she would remember a certain picture she took before it all went awry, in that irreproachable promise of something different. She would remember an orange boat tied to a dock, a dock that she wanted, and know that it wasn’t him but the water she was in love with




Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: