Waiting.

The sun is glorious through the ragged edges of the clouds, as I wait for you. The cloud have deep gray bodies, soft and thick, tinted blueish, or maybe lavender. At their fringes, the light blazes through, burning the gray away to a brilliant white. The trees burst into twists and tangles of twigs closer by me, but the sky shows pale gold behind them. Hours of daylight remain but sunset is already hanging in the sky.

Inside, I am hanging, too, suspended in time, not space. When I feel this alone, I am not sure who to tell. When will you come? This is Sunday, but for me it is a cloudday. My tears have dried. My face, like the ground outside where the rain has not fallen, has clouds, fringes of sunlight, cracks of blue sky. But there is salt here, and the seed of a headache.

And finally, you have come, and now I do not know what to do.