stl: matchbox 20, '3 am'
Here, take this.
At the time, it had felt like such an insignificant gesture. Take your coat. Don't forget your coat. He had humored her and slipped it on before kissing her good-bye. She couldn't quite put her pretty little finger on it, but something about that kiss felt so wrong, out of place. The cosmos was shifting and not in their favor, thunderheads loomed in the distance-- the promise of rain and hurt.
Take your coat.
If she had kept him just a minute more, maybe things would be different. If she had drawn out the kiss. If she had been clever enough to delay his travel by a day. If she had just followed her gut and begged him to stay, maybe he would be here with her now. She rocked, clutching his coat to her chest, inhaling his scent, letting the mud and the cold seep into the knees of her jeans. This loss was too much; too familiar.
I'm trying, love. I'm trying so very hard.
She had always considered herself such a flawless judge of character and she knew, knew in her soul, he was doing as he said. He was trying. For her, for them, for whatever future lay before them-- he was trying. He had lain beside her so many nights in the beginning, telling her of his worst times, his betrayals. With his confessions pooling around them, he swore he wanted a change, a better life. A life where he worried less about who was behind him and paid more diligent attention to who was next to him.
I'm going to marry you one day.
One day was now a day too late. The sky above her, dawn or dusk she was unsure, rumbled with such vengence she was sure it was answering her anguished screams. One more day, love.
One more day.