His handprints lived indelibly on her wet cement shoulders, like the teeth marks carved in her hand several months prior. Her vision hazes with clouds, rolling over the galaxies of constellations that once illuminated her eyes. The broken window of her smile framed with apple cheeks and unkempt curtains of brunette – it's an unfair comparison when she tells me that I'm beautiful.
His words impale her, leaving her perforated like a crossword puzzle laid down on Sunday afternoon that he never cared to finish. I've been waiting to gain permission to pick up a pen and fill in the holes with, if not the right words, then at least ones that fit. Letters to take the place of these blank spaces that reside beneath her sternum. It's just one small umbrella from one reluctant dreamer that can't turn off the rain, but I know she's not the type to admit that she needs saving.
She'll just cry.
Until she's empty. Until her tear ducts run dry like abandoned oil wells no derrick could tap. She shudders and gasps in the withdrawal pains made by his absence, as if it were heroine leaving her system instead of unkept oaths and empty promises. Her arms wind tightly across her chest at the force of it, trying for nothing more than to stay in one piece.
She is once again dialing my number, and he is once again gracing the doorway of her thoughts, like the front burner of her mind no amount of conditioning could teach her not to touch, and I can't quite figure out how to tell her what she already knows. That there are men, and there are itchy fisted monsters and it was only a matter of time until he needed to be scratched again. That she can't wait around forever, all the while forgetting those things that remind her what it feels like to breathe heavy and deep. That I can't just sit idly by watching her shadowbox his memories while they are boxing her into shadow.
See, there's this fantasy I'm crafting. It's of a small house on the coast and spending afternoons on the beach while the snow falls, mixing with waves and sand in a way Arizona girls never even thought to dream of. It's pushing daughters on swing sets and teaching seven year old hands the art of pancake flipping. Talking for hours using only our fingerprints and eyelashes. I would be her sun to keep the clouds and ice at bay, and she could finally turn her face to the sky and let gold soak her skin. I'm sure a sunburn is what she's really needing.
And in this fantasy, he comes for her. And we fight tooth and nail for her honor. My split fists, they'd bleed for lovers, and he would see starlight for every fault line in her ribcage. For every tear he made possible that froze on her cheek. For ever ignored white flag raised and kissed with marble from her lips. A scar for every nightmare that ever dared to keep her bones contained, his wounds would map the galaxies from her eyes that are now burned out forever, but I know she's not the type to admit that she needs saving.
And maybe she doesn't.
It's just this fantasy I'm crafting.