Her wrists were delicately thin. That day when I held her hands and we looked into each others eyes would be the last day the sun shone from the exact same spot in the sky. I tried to remember where exactly the sun was. It was on the tip of the oldest tree in the withered field. I took a picture of it, her eyes staring into the lens filled with intrigue.

Everyday when I’m having a hard time, I pull down the sun visor, where I keep the photo hidden from the world, my own little secret. It makes me sad but it keeps me going. I know she is gone but sometimes I feel like she is telling me to keep on moving.

It was on a night with a thin moon that hung low like a u that I traced her veins. Waves of goose bumps followed my guitar-playing fingers as I caressed her skin. It was another excuse to touch her again. She looked at me, her eyes still seeing me with immense curiosity. We kissed when I met the end towards her wrist, the veins of her palm were too concealed for me to trace. Besides, that was all of the room I needed.

We were one.

She is now the sky and I am the land. We are separate and yet we meet at the horizon.

Everyday, when I would lie on her couch and watch the television, she would run her thin fingers through my hair. Pillows of the finest fabric would pale in comparison to the cushion of her bosom.

One day, out of the blue, as we lie there, doing absolutely nothing, she sings a bittersweet melody into my ear. It sounds like the wind of autumn in my hair after a blazing hot summer. “Tomorrow,”

The breeze falters and she stands up with the grace that no human can ever come close to achieving. She is gone. After a minute of realizing her absence, I get up and run after her and she is gone.

Tomorrow…