Northport, Alabama

The rain falls. The night crawls. The thunder crashes. The river calls.

I pass like water through your hands, no longer me, but not you either. Far more pure than anything I’ve ever been. Better. Finer.

Transparent.

Every want laid bare. Every fear diluted into atoms crashing, worlds colliding. Gravity upended as you hand strands of gold back to me, lay them across my trembling palms and close my fingers tightly around, lest they get lost again.

So fragile are these dreams, so unworthy am I. I hand them to you over and over, but you just return them.

“Believe,” you say.

I look out my window into the darkness and ponder your words. In the night, the rain glimmers like diamonds, as many drops as are the miles between. Just because I can’t see it doesn’t make it not true. If nothing else, you’ve taught me that.

Softly, ever so softly, I turn the lock, tiptoe out onto the porch and say goodnight to the stars. And just for the hell of it, I breathe a wish and throw it to the constellations.

Music: Mr. Brightside by The Killers (lyrics)

Posted on June 1, 2006 by Carmen K. Sisson tagged Alabama, Night, Northport, trees, water, writing