Last night in my dreams, I had drawn a tropical storm. Dark, menacing beauty. Gusts of charcoal rendered paper houses ripped and torn.
Then…combing my hair with my fingers. Ribbons of light in a darkened room.
“I have to leave soon.” he said. I already knew. “We could write” he began.
I touched my hands to his lips, “Sssh…” and the blue-grey cotton of his shirt, already feeling him gone.
Years later. “It was never going to last. We were young.”
“We don’t know that.” he whispered into the phone.