S.M owns Twilight


Swirl. Flick. Drip.

My finger traces a single letter on the window. My heavy breath fogs it up again, as I watch the rain pelt down on the glass.

Always waiting.

Rain continues to pound, bouncing off the pavement. Smiling, I remember the last time it rained like this. We jumped; danced in the spray, the water raining down on as you rained kisses all over my face, our laughter the only sound for miles.

Still waiting.

Last time, snow covered the ground. The dogs stayed in that winter, as if they sensed I needed their company.

Every time, you might not come back. The longer I wait, the more the fear overwhelms me, crushing my chest and twisting like a knife in my gut.

As headlights shine up the driveway, my finger freezes on the window.

I'm done waiting.

The screen door swings open and there you are. Pale, drawn and tired, but more beautiful than ever in your white t-shirt and army fatigues.

I rush to you, you drop to your knees.

Your arms swirl around my hips and you rest your head on my abdomen, round with new life.

You came home to me. To us.