Lavender and Leather

H

H found a way out.
It seems the door had never been locked.
But I had thought it too bothersome to check.

He and I lived here so long.
On the inside of these bone-colored walls, together,
in this house that I built over a lifetime; in this house, cemented.

His hair had grown so long.
It began to curl down the sides of his lovely face.
I had hoped he'd stay with me.  It was a selfish desire.

What I loved about him was the movement in his body, his freedom;
that he'd made a lush garden in the backyard, where I had only seen desert.
Though I wished he'd never leave, I knew he couldn't stay.

The season had to end. We burned through it.
And now I could see him standing outside, his hands clutching the sunlight.
His smile was so beautiful I almost cried.

He turned to face me and dropped his chin – it seemed an invitation.
And why not? He'd left the door ajar. Certainly, I could join him.
I lifted my hand out through the dark wooden frame.

But he had gone too far. He couldn't pull me through.
And I was too tired, too comfortable inside.
My limbs were languid, my grasp was weak.

And who would tend to the garden? I wondered.
Who would keep the house and mend the fences and mix the cement?
They needed to be kept and mended and mixed. It was my assignment.

Perhaps next spring, I thought as the chill of autumn set in, though somewhere inside, I knew it was a lie.
In the winter, I would drink wine from a saxophone and miss him, keeping a fire in the mantle.
I hope he will come back, but if I were him, I'd run.