The most heartbreaking thing
He said to me was
"I promise I'll come back."
Not because he didn't
But because for a moment
Even he was convinced that he would.

He came in winter
But by spring your love had thawed
Summer makes you cry;
You still remember the way
The autumn winds blew him home.

She sits and paints and her conscience speaks.
“This means you’re healing,” it says.
She smiles and cleans her brush.
“Who’d have thought it would be so colourful,” she says.
There are tears in her eyes.

I am not the storm.
I am the freshly-soaked earth.
I am the vivid petals of the quenched flowers.
I am the hazy sunlight glowing between the clouds.
I am the sound of the birds as they return to sing once more.
I am the gentle breeze caressing each and every tree.
I am the cracked flags drying in the afternoon sun.
I am the umbrella discarded in the porch.
I am not the storm.
When the rain stops,
I come alive.

At first it mattered to her –
The way they looked.
The way they spun words from their mouths
Like silk
And wrapped her in them.
When they gazed into her eyes every fibre of her being
Would quiver.
When they were angry
Their cheekbones would form ghostly ravines.

But she learned not to fall for the pretty ones.
She still sees their faces every night
Taunting.
They ask her why she ran away.
Her mother asks,
“What kind of man will you date next?”
She replies,
“One without a head.”

Every night is the same.
"Tonight's the night!" she'll exclaim.

Then she'll hit the town
lips coated in red, eyes agleam.

The only problem is that it never ends up being 'the night'.
Or perhaps it does.
Nobody can really tell.
She's never told anyone what 'the night' is.

How long has she been saying that for?" one person asks.
"As long as I can remember," another replies.
Maybe tonight will be the night.

Whatever that means.