la reyna

"if i ever finish this book, i will dedicate it to you."

i wake up at six o'clock, and the light is just creamy enough to see by. it's may, like it always is in the old movies when the poppies come out and the apple trees hang low, frothing with green buds and virgin blossoms all dressed in rose. i curl my hands around the white sheets we washed yesterday, hung up to dry in the wind coming down off the mountain. there is no hurry. there is only time. slow, honeysuckle time.

i sit up, and watch the golden edge creep up the waist of huajatolla until she is fully dressed and i am fully awake, ready for the warmth of coffee and the sudden cold of the hardwood floor in the kitchen. she climbs up into my lap with a soft, milky purr and i scratch her just behind the ears. i know she likes that.

as i leave to make the coffee, she leaps off the bed to follow, and i look back. his chest is rising with the slow, evenness of his breath. there is no hurry today. only time. so i stand in the doorway barefoot, watching the shadow of the pine tree outside curl it's way around our window. she makes a sudden, loud noise, greeting the morning. and i see him yawn, rubbing the sleep from his eyes, rubbing the sunshine through his hair.

he looks at me, grinning at him.
he smiles.
so slow, and so sweet.
because there is only time.
slow, honeysuckle time.

--

i wake up at seven o'clock and hit the alarm before her pillow hits me from the top bunk. we both try to pull ourselves up, and i hear her murmuring the words to la reyna under her breath despite the cold.

i don't know if you're coming for me.
and i don't know what i'm waiting for,
but i'm waiting.
oh Lord, You know i'm still waiting.

and no matter how many words i fumble through, hurting and hurting and hurting, i am still hopeful. i know that nobody is promised somebody at the end of this. but i can't help feeling like tomorrow will be the day. or the next one after that. or maybe that one at the end of a long, beautiful string of days will be the day that brings
you.

this room.
this room still smells like honeysuckle.

to m.

i stumbled across your notes. i'm not sure why they made me cry, but they did. this is only half of the ache you made me feel.

and to the beautiful olivia knight.

this is for all of those posts that turned out to be fictional.

payback.

xx