Mistakes and Farewells
Patch of Sky.
We sit together under a patch of sky, swaying back and forth on the old hammock that I'd found in a thrift store last autumn. A bee hovers lazily next to a flower, and somewhere a bird sings. We don't speak; we've already said everything we need to. Said it, screamed it, yelled it.
"I should go," I say, as the minutes slowly pass.
"You should," he agrees.
Neither of us move.
"Is this really how it's going to end?" he asks after a moment.
"Yeah, I guess it is."
A pause, and then a quiet confession: "I don't want you to leave."
"This can't go on anymore, you must know that."
"Please, just stay. Please."
And then we're kissing, hands fumbling under shirts for one last goodbye, one last mistake, and we were back to how we started.
"I should go," I say, as the minutes slowly pass.
"You should," he agrees.
Neither of us move.
"Is this really how it's going to end?" he asks after a moment.
"Yeah, I guess it is."
A pause, and then a quiet confession: "I don't want you to leave."
"This can't go on anymore, you must know that."
"Please, just stay. Please."
And then we're kissing, hands fumbling under shirts for one last goodbye, one last mistake, and we were back to how we started.