The Lament

It’s been two o'clock since I sat down, tracing the grain of this ancient, town-tasting bench. Hours gone, and still, the curve of the wood is pressed into my memory, shimmering behind my eyelids. I couldn't help myself; I carved my name right next to yours, as if that were enough. The sun cast down a dazzling blessing too grand to merely backdrop my whole life. Now, I just feel so foolish and hollowed out, like I've been scraped down to the studs. Like a home after the move, where the sun shines cruelly on the bare floorboards, and all you can see is the dust dancing in the empty spaces where everything used to belong.

I filed my nails on the splintered green, watching the light decay. I held onto the color of that blush of the afternoon sky until it was nothing more than a bruise fading into the coming black. If you're going to arrive, it has to be now, under this golden light.

I kept faith with the rustling leaves, just in case your shadow slipped through. I strained to hear the coastal bell of your laugh. It’s folded up so tight in my memory, I’m afraid if I try to tease it out, the sound will vanish completely. I had nothing but a folded postcard inside my pocket and the fierce certainty that all my roads lead to you. Please, if you are to arrive, let it be now, under this golden light.

Every streetlamp kept blinking your name into the darkness. Every passing car on the boulevard felt like a knife cutting the air. Was it you? I pictured you walking in at the very stroke of midnight. I could welcome a phantom, but not this vacant air you left behind. Only the vintage gloom of dusk was throwing velvet over me. That was the moment I finally knew: you were never really here. I was holding a whole space in the universe for an empty chair.

I draped my whole self in your words. The way you made everything sound like a prophecy, as if the entire town was waiting for us just for atmosphere. It wasn't love. It was artifice. You painted me a picture of shelter under the autumnal leaves but didn't send a warning for the girl who believes. And I simply stood there, holding my breath, anticipating the fall.

And time didn’t merely pass; it slipped through my fingers, stealing the precious seconds I'd wasted on desperate loves. My heart was humming like a songbird's wire, ready for you to finally walk through the door.

I dreamed of you, stunning and undone in the ruin of white satin. I wanted you to blaze in, like a comet across the sky. But most of all, I just wanted you to be real. Not a boy who let his star burn out, but the man brave enough to show up when he said he would.

They call it the last blush before the sun dips down. For me, it felt like catching hold of a dewdrop in a long drought that'd been diluted so many times until it was almost too delicate to see, like the thinnest silk.

And I had to ask it. Were you ever real, or just a fever dream my heart refused to beat? Did you fade with the coward light, or something much worse?

I'm so tired of being the rumor only twilight believes.

I pressed my hands into the damp soil, trying to feel that pulse of prayers. Yet, the earth didn't open up beneath me. The crickets started their final stitching, sealing away where my hope lay dead.

And just like that, the vigil is over.

You weren't coming.

The wind can lament all it wants. I am the lament.