imperfect prose on thursdays: on how to break your lover’s heart

we’re in cancun and the ocean sounds splash and the seagulls cry, peach sky, and we’re sitting on our bed not speaking.

a day in the sun, a day against froth of wave and whir of tire and barter and grovel before mexican shopkeepers and children needing shoes and others needing clothes and the houses falling down and all i can do is weep and all he can do is silence

and it’s water from my eyes, “how?”

turn to husband of eight years and he’s playing with wedding ring. “how can you see it all, this all, and not be moved?”

i shrivel inside the words. “this brokenness and you—where is yours? where are your tears? doesn’t it make you feel?”

the wind lifts curtains yellow, they move like the hem of a dress and he sighs but i’m not finished.

“i will never leave you, trenton, but part of me feels as though you’ve already left me.”

and i see it in his eyes. the way they crease-skin and wet pupil.

“i’m trying to protect you,” he whispers. “you feel so much pain, it scares me; so i try to protect you by pretending these things don’t move me. but they do. you know those babies in the grass? how i said it was okay? i know it really wasn’t. but you were already hurting so much…”

curtain shifts between us and glass, panes of glass. i touch his arm, warm. “i love you for that,” i say. “i understand now.”

fingers, palm. “but don’t be afraid to be broken.” pleading, now. “i want a partner, not a protector. i feel stronger if you’re feeling the pain too. we can share it. we can share the pain.”

ocean and sky collide in dusk and we sit on our bed the world on our shoulders and we’re not speaking

and it’s okay

1. link up a post (old or new) that you feel is ‘broken’ or ‘imperfect’ or somehow redemptive
2. put the ‘imperfect prose’ button at the bottom of your post, so others can find their way back here (see button code in right-hand column of my blog)
3. read others’ prose and encourage them!

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