Trails

-The plane cuts the clouds above him. He wonders if she’s on it. He’s had the thought as many times as he’s woken past the midpoint of night, in the still dark, felt the cold of her absence, and searched the empty side of the bed for her ghost. He’d wake and drive down to the coast, listen to the planes moaning above, and wonder which would be the one that would bring her back. He’d sit there for hours, as the sunlight spilled upon the waves, and they continued rolling in, crashing and cascading. Some days he’d fall asleep in the sand and dream about the moments before she left, memories of laughter and warm embraces. Some days, he’d simply rest his head on his arms, wrapped around his knees, and imagine what could be said if she returned. Wonder how they would greet each other, if his arms would once more heal around her, and he’d breathe her in and feel that completion Lacan only dreamed about. When the rains came, he kept himself from leaving his apartment in night’s darkest stretch. He would simply lay there, listening to the pattern of the water’s reminder that, in that cold moment, he was the only body breathing, the only warmth emanating. His eyes, fixed on the blur of the window, would watch the way the water cascaded and then slowly abandoned itself, streak by streak. It made him sad to see his breath become a cloud before him and then dissipate, leaving him in the darkness. He hasn’t really moved since. He’s lost hair, gained and lost weight, his teeth have suffered from the nightly grinding of his jaw, his eyes have weakened to such a state that when he hears planes over head-his eyes only follow their trails.