i hear you, like Rain. You talk to me through the window, through the yellowed sheets, through the darkened air with the sound of the trees outside, swishing and swirling in the wind and night. I hear you, like Rain. You speak to me of moonbeams and sunsets and golden things I’ll never see. I wish for another place where you were, where you sat near me in the dark and told stories while I fell asleep. I wish for those times, even though I hated you. I love you now, is that enough? We were cold and little, dirty and sad. You were tormented, not by me, although you hated me sometimes, too. I wish for that old piano and the little yellow ducks on the quilt. The nighties we wore to church, dressed in our best. You sang to me songs, funny ones about string and milk and clever things. You were always clever. We danced in the car and brushed our long gold hair together, bored with the drives. Long, long drives for hours and hours to the hospital and back. Your broken arm. My broken feet. I missed you when I was away. Biding time in a boring ward while you lived a million deaths. He killed you right from the start. I can’t believe you survived. But you didn’t really, did you? He took you away, from me, from us. He put you in a hell where you viciously hated the person you should have loved; You. I hate him. I wish for our sleeps in that room again. Cold, always hungry, reading books in the dark. I could see over the valley. The fog below us covered the town in ‘still’. It was stark. It was beauty. We froze but the grass was pretty. Silver lined with glass. My bed was cold in the morning. I wanted to run away. You should have come with me.
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