Her eyes would always open at exactly the wrong time.
Tonight, they writhed and churned� worms moving through soft earth, slowly spinning in a watery blur. Now she kept her eyes hidden, downcast but open, not meeting anyone�s gaze. Not holding any strength, she�s again a ghost that flits into my mind, passes through me and into me only long enough to change my life.
Everyone else can see through her, forget her and move away from the empty air, like a vacuum, the same emptiness that pulls me in. She would be in my head forever, and knows it. She smiles her transparent unhappy smile, and brings her shoulders forward in an effort to convince herself that she knows the right thing to do, and that no one else will mind if she does it. She�s brave for everyone but me, which is why I can�t see through her like everyone else can. I focus and understand that she�s not really there anymore.
She waivers in the air, the same air that blows the leaves inside out, but doesn�t move the strands of her hair. She slides away, like oil on water: always somewhere, but rushed so far away and so fast, that no one has the time to scoop her up to save her, or at least peacefully set her to rest. Somewhere, when the waters calm, she�ll writhe back together, drop by drop, and ignite on the surface brightly, shining like I�ve always known she would, and light up the night again.
His head tilts forward in my dream, and I�ve dreamt it more than once. Silver blade and red blood runs from his neck, and he gasps at me. He doesn�t know who I am, but I know who he is. I smile and he dies and all is right with the world. I�m sure she knows, and I�m sure she can�t speak, unknown and faded away as ever to everyone else. She looks at me, her eyes are still closed, as they usually are to me, and only after a few moments, I realize that I can�t actually see her; my eyes are the ones closed, and I am picturing her to myself. I don�t know if I am blinded, or if I am just awaking from another day. I don�t know which I would prefer right now.
I expect the phone to ring soon; an hour late is right on time. I know better than to worry any more; there is nothing for me to worry about. The sun is almost down, but the grey sky is nothing more than cloud and light that comes from all directions. The day feels like it is mourning a passing, and the air speaks of rain in muted tones, afraid of the severity of the storm, but unwilling to give up the feeling of falling water. The trees bend willingly in the wind, stretching immobile branches and waking up again, just this once.
The first fat drops of rain are polite; they wait for people to get into their cars or into their homes. They are safe there, from the random lightning strikes, from the careless misdirected anger. If only there were no one on the streets now, no one living under leaks. But there must always be a high point, a highest point, for the lightning to spark from, and reach to the sky. Lightning travels upwards, did you know? It�s true, the spark begins at the ground, or at a molecule in the sky, or something that the charge can pass through, and then it arcs from the point of origin, back up to the clouds. It happens so fast, we see it coming down, because we can�t see it coming up. Nothing on the ground ever asks for it. The lightning takes, and grounds where it can.
I run in thunderstorms. Outside, feet pounding pavement, knees aching- hell, who am I kidding- knees breaking. Jarring impact, I can feel the cartilage flake away, bone on bone grinds and churns, like worms moving through soft earth, slowly spinning in a watery blur.
If only she only she wouldn�t open her eyes just now; if only she knew when was right.