Today it rained. The grass is soaked and the porch is wet, and I am a combination of the two. I watched the sky change from light to dark and the clouds shift across the plain. I felt the wind and it kissed my face the way you kiss me sometimes, roughly, passionately. The first drops hit my warm skin not long after the sky darkened and I let it soak me. It feels nice to stand still in the rain. Feeling every individual drop fall across my back or on to my head. It’s lovely, really, you should try it some time. It’s cold and constant, it’s sort of like you. It stops. It’s gone. It’s back. It’s gone. Maybe you're rain. Maybe that’s why I like to stand in it, feeling the drops, letting it soak me to the bone. Did you feel the rain on your skin today? Like cold fingers running down your arm and giving you goose bumps. There’s static in it, somehow.
I miss you like the rain. I hope you rush in soon like the dark, like the clouds shifting. I want you, like a body needs water, like part of me is made up of you.
Please write me soon,
I hate you like you hate me. I want you but you don’t want me. Or do you? I can’t tell. You want me, but I don’t want you. Or do I? It’s a mess. We’re a mess. I’m a mess, and so are you. It can’t work, it can work. It’s not real, it’s a fantasy. It’s a message, it’s a picture. Fake. Cold. Distant. Death. It’s numbered like our days, it’s numbered like heartbreaks, and it’s wrecked. We’re nothing. We could be something. Then it’ll end. It all ends. Like the reaper it will come, we can fear it or we can welcome it. Let’s run toward the end together, or walk, or crawl, or drag each other there. This thing isn’t a thing or is it a thing? Is it a real thing or a fake thing or thing that is real but can also be fake? Or is it fake with little bits of real? What is this fake or real thing? I can’t be sure. It’s numbered like the life of a flower, the life of a butterfly, the life of a person. It’s numbered. We’re numbered. Let’s count together. 1,2,3…
Why can’t you shut up for one damn minute? I’m tired of your voice and you retellings. I’m tired of you talking to me in that tone. That tone that drives me crazy and makes me feel like I should be hurting you to shut you up. Just shut up.
“Did you like them?” she asks.
“I loved them,” he replies.
She smiles. It’s the most beautiful response she has ever received before. She’s glad that it will be the last thing she’ll ever read. Her phone is on the ledge now, calm, no incoming messages to distract her. She looks from left to right at the amazing view before her. Sunset. The golden hues mixing with shades of pink and purple.
“Beautiful,” she whispers as she looks down. She’s scared, but she’s ready. She looks up to the setting sun once more, then takes a deep breath. Her eyes flutter closed. She feels the cool air around her and wonders if it’s already over. It isn’t. She exhales. Her feet shuffle forward, closer, closer, to the edge. It’s time, she thinks. It’s time. She takes in one more deep breath. Her phone goes off, but if it’s him, he’ll never get a reply. If it’s anyone, they’ll never get a reply. At least, not from her. Dead girls can’t text back.