Walking with an old friend on a summer evening in the muggy heat, oppressively waiting.  Come the storm.  The air will clear.  The rain will cleanse.  This saturated land can take no more.

I dreamt the flood reached my bedroom window in my childhood home.  Panic.  Where’s my mam? 

The mother of all floods.

She’s already gone.  Safe.  A child’s worst nightmare, losing its mother.  We are fragile.  We are made of broken pieces.  Shards.  Hurting you was unintentional.   A by product of my own pain. 

Have you always known what to do?  I haven’t.   Have you always known the right thing to say?  I haven’t.  I am a piece of you.  You are a piece of me.  Without you I am incomplete.   My shape will adapt and that is fine.  The prototype of you in me will endure.

I am who I am through knowing you.

Let the storm rage. 

The night is cooler.  Drier.  Still.  Witnessing the silence between our souls. 


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