Plooie.

A sudden pallor spread over the lines happiness had etched into her face.
A moment occurred, engulfed her, and washed by.
She still stood there like someone had frozen her time; the one’s alongside seemed to move on.
She asked, “Why?”

Watching them drop into a nullifying void, she stood there, a trench around her, and all those who advanced, were victims, to the amplitudes of black rays that took the form of darkness, they fell, a mighty fall. She ran around the moat, the one that appeared inexplicably.
It was difficult not falling and continually running in circles around the moat was not the most convenient.

The red sand had seemed to tan her brown skin.

She had to wash the stains.

Her gait matched that of a duck waddling into the pond.
Only she didn’t know how to swim.

She walked around trying to find an answer.
Stumbled, across the headstone of life’s most sure gift. Death.
Delayed the journey to its destination.

She saw her.
Cruising like an unwanted wet cloud on the horizon, covering the highlight of a pure morning.
She ran into the graveyard, the nearest escape route.
Laid herself in a coffin, the smell of freshly shoveled mud filled her insides.
Before the varnish on the inside of the coffin spread and took over her senses.
It was dark, in the distance she could hear chants, and she remembered the smell of sandal scented rosary.

She had to get up, and leave, the coffin didn’t need her, not now.

More mud stains.

She walked along.
Into the sunrise.

Mornings, just after night.
Before the sun erased the melancholy of the perturbed sky, there was an aroma, like the one that was, that made her happy, like the scents of pure love, she recollected an image, the one that was framed like a moment, captured, of the still, once occupied bed, of sheets that weren’t made, of the pillow that lay in the center to uplift her hips, stained with wine, that he let flow as he devoured her. The sun was yet to rise.

She walked beneath the elm trees, stepping on acorns that crunched under her foot.
They sounded really different from stepping on dry leaves.
But both of them were being stepped on.

Her legs ached, but she had to run, from her.
Her shoulders pined, to be able to slouch into warmth, she knew so well.
She shuffled, and noticed a flicker of light, it was unusual, the foliage wasn’t merciful to the trespassing light rays, but this one had made it to her eye.
She followed it, not knowing where it would take her, till she saw the brook, the one that foamed at the edges, it was the end of a waterfall, or you could say it was where all ends met.
Do ends meet?
Parallel lines never do?
She stood there, transfixed, till she sensed her toe twitch in delight, the water had found its way.
Where was hers?
She walked into the water, anyway.
At least she could hide here, without having to leave.
So she did.
And as she stood in the pool that covered all beneath her torso, she waited for it to rise above her and wash her away.

She kept waiting.


She plucked a few big leaves, she’d always known they’d come handy to wipe off grime.
Walking out of the water, and back on solid ground, she obviously didn’t think that the swirling dust would entrench her wet lower body.
Oh well, the pond had taken her, alright, but it wasn’t home.
She had his home, theirs; she had to hide from her.

She walked along, the afternoon and its grace had been denied to her.
The pine and oak trees were mighty, yes.
She missed basking in the warmth of the morning sun, the one that woke him up so instantly, making him sit back and rub his big eyes, and smack his lips, before he went to adjust the drapes again, and she never let him sleep, not after he’d woken up, he couldn’t not until he’d warmed his legs that had touched the cold floor in haste.
So he’d put up a mock protest and entwine his legs, under the sheets, slytoy.


The water had felt like that, the sand that swept beneath her feet, through her toes, when the water pulled back, felt like his toes and hers. She needed to be back home to cook them a warm meal.
Before that she had to find the perfect hiding spot, she would today.



A sudden lightning crackled.
Like a whip, made of the best.
It reminded her of her, the one she was running from, hiding.

She had indeed protected her during her worst.
Lifted her up and put her back on heels.
Dragged her out of the shower, where hours were spent under the running tap, in deliriums that only an addict comprehended to.
Pulled her back as she pressed her face against the cold of glass on a random morning, too early to be awake, as she drooled her fears out, over the window pane.
Choked her self pitying tears and slapped her out of it.
She made her fight, back.

But why avoid her, now?

It was necessary.

She walked quickly, in short, brisk steps.
The clouds threatened.
Hastening, she dropped his ring, bent, picked, and walked on.
She’d pluck tomatoes on the way.

As she quickly shuffled through the road, she stopped, she stood, and looked up, she couldn’t stop staring.
The magnificent tree, spread across, around, its stump, filtered the rain drops as they pattered around her.
Each drop hit a branch, maybe a leaf, slid along it, the ones that fell straight through the foliage, broke into two and dropped down as gracefully onto the floor as the ones that effortlessly slid.
More drops, as she observed blatantly, fell on her face, she loved the way it felt.
You could tell, as the drop slid down the curve of her cheek bone, that had now, uplifted nonchalantly and without her own notice, as her lips grew into a smile.
She did a quick swirl and then a slower one, feeling the rain singe her stains, corrode them away, each time, washing away her bitterness, her past.

Strength had indeed, saved her, not her sanity.
That is why she had to hide, cause she didn’t need bitterness.

She walked through the rain and the wind whistled through her curls.
A soft hum in her ears.
There she saw her, standing at the end of the road, she didn’t turn back this time, and she walked towards her.
Into her.
And then she broke into a run, her surroundings blurred, her focus was what lay ahead
What lay ahead?

And she was almost there, it was then that she saw him, secretly talking to her plant, the one at the doorstep, she did that, he always made fun of her.
She stopped, her feet fixed, growing weaker by the minute, her body slightly arching toward the front, toward him.
He cruised over and fit effortlessly into her open arms and held her before she’d fall off because of duck knees.

She had forgotten to notice that it wasn’t raining anymore.

As she brushed her lips against his, he lifted her up and she squealed like a pleased cat, and tossed her curls, they were wet.
And as he carried her in and put her on the bed, she wrestled her way onto the top of him, and he said to her, then, that her dripping hair felt like the rain.
She playfully nodded them onto his face and he enjoyed his rain.

Theirs.