Every year I come here to celebrate the day she left me.

Ten years ago, there was mostly grass in this field. We used to come here and watch the clouds pass by. I told them the truth; I had a wife that was terribly too kind for everyone, that she wanted to help the world so much she wished to be buried within the forest, so that her body would be a part of their growth. See? She had a flawlessly beautiful heart that I would do anything, anything, for her.
But I never quite understood why she left. They said she probably got bored, or she ran away with someone else and changed her identity because even after five years, not a single trace, not even a body, was found. The police gave up eventually.

I told them the truth.

But little did they know, that day she told me she wanted to die. She was more than perfect, but maybe depression does blind one's eyes. It broke my heart when she kept telling me her departure would make the world a better place.

I wanted to save her.

But how could I say no to that face?

"In ten years," You crossed your legs beside me. "Where would you wanna live?"

"Hm.." I narrowed my eyes, thinking carefully about what could happen. After a long moment I pointed my finger to a small shadow behind the trees, next to the suburban area.
"There."
You smiled. Your hair danced to the touch of a morning wind, kind of like the grass upon these hills

"Where would you?" I glanced at your nervous laugh.
You lifted your finger up to my place, shoving mine aside.
I moved my finger back, trying to land it where I pointed. You insisted.

"Hey!" I squealed, "That's my place."

It took you a brief second until I heard,
"Exactly."

"Is your mom a pilot?"
I walked towards you with a cup of cold tea, just the way you liked it--a little too sweet for me.
You frowned.
"No, where did you get that idea?"
I shrugged.

You started sipping the iced comfort as I said,
"Your sister told me she loved to fly like your mother.."
You choked a little.
"...and she'll tell her that she likes me when you two get home."

I giggled.
But then I couldn't forget the way your skin paled and you looked at me in such horror.

"Rach," Your voice trembled,
"My Ma jumped out of our ninty-feet balcony three years ago."

A Place Like Home

Am I a crack on your walls?
Do my bones creak when you hold your doors open at two?
Is my skin ruptured
Every time you sink your forehead to my surface
And your tears fall
On me?

It never occurred to me how
Storms come in pages
Of the photographs
That were never taken

A warm silence
Behind the answers
That are far
Too
Bleak

I am my own victims and villains
And all the tragic ending
That is yet to come

I am a library of a thousand
Gloomy
Fairy tales

But on the corner
There's this book
Where your voice is painted all over chapter seven
In fifteen lines
Lies a carving of your crooked smile
And the sentences
All written in future tenses