phytopthera in formless

I have been all over the place

here are words, unrelated to my situation now, but a past memory.

She stands in the window, brown eyes pleading, lips saying nothing. She isn’t going to say it, but she wants you to know.

It’s a Sunday afternoon, sleepy and warm. The sun is shining lazily, casting marbled shadows on your face. There is music coming from the house, gentle mellow notes on a guitar. The neighbor’s dog is barking, a coarse rough sound, of a dog who spend’s it’s days behind a chain-link fence. You look down at your feet, bare toes in dying grass. You think about how you should probably put your shoes on, because of the thorn now stuck in your foot. Wincing as you pull the thorn out, you see her leave her window perch. Her back is turned, washing dishes, just long curly hair and a small frame is visible. You walk up the steps of the fading wooded porch, each one creating a hollow sound. The sunlight is making everything golden, even the dusty lawn chair you swore months ago you would clean but never did.

You open the door slowly, gently, because maybe she won’t turn around, and maybe you won’t have to look into those pleading eyes. She doesn’t turn, only the slightly louder sound of clanking dishes signifies that she knows you’re inside. Now armed with shoes, you go back outside, through the lawn and to your car. It contains everything you own, excluding the shoes. You turn around and look back inside, she hasn’t returned, she isn’t going to look at you again. A heaving sigh escapes you, this is your last chance to say something, to look into those eyes and give them an answer. Instead you get in your car and start the engine, pull out the very old pack of Newports in the glove box and light as you start driving.

You never said goodbye and you’re already wishing you could, but you can’t bear to look into those eyes again, because all they are saying is

“I love you”