Arid

No matter how well I think I’m doing, no matter how soft the evening, my heart blooms like a cactus in my chest. I think about the night you got drunk and drove us home. I think about all the stars I could see from your back porch, jeweled eyes scattered above the tree line. 

There was venom between us. A desert viper that slept under the bed. I wish I could have coaxed it out. I didn’t try hard enough. I got bit myself and couldn’t see past the swelling. 

I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I ask myself all the time how I could have saved us both. I wonder if the venom stopped your heart. The last time I paused to listen I couldn’t hear it beating. I hugged you in my driveway and felt your tears soak into my shoulder and that was it. We said goodbye. I couldn’t believe I would never touch you again so I rushed inside and didn’t watch you drive away. 

Now, in my dreams, I see your car winding down dark desert highways. Your headlights are failing. You’re pale and coughing and your face is a shape I don’t recognize. There’s a snake head in your glove compartment.  

If a star crashes down into the sand, and no one is around, does anyone hear it? If someone never tells you how much they hurt, does the pain still manage to echo, traveling miles and miles to greet you? Do you hate me? Do you hate me? Do you?