SUGAR AND LIME|| Short stories!

April is Gone.

And you said 'when I get back in November, I might not be the same'. And you weren't. You were hollow bones, empty of life as spring is of snow. I'm staring at you now, I've been looking for too long. I can see your hands twitching in discomfort. For the first time since we met, you're unsure around me. This simple realization is a noose around my throat, and I'm sure I just made some odd squeaking noise like I'm getting choked. Your eyes shift, eyebrows knit together and I'm searching.

I'm searching, and searching but I can't find you. Is it the rain? Can I not find you because of the downpour? No... I run my tongue across my teeth instead of saying a word. The rain can blur, but it cannot make a ghost. You're standing in front of me - a warped phantom is, at least. You say my name, it's your voice if it had bled out all it's life. I've been missing you since you left. Your poetic compassion, and the way your nose twitches when you laugh.

I understand something now.

When you said you may not return the same as you went, I should have known. I should have known that meant I needed to grieve before I saw you again. I exhale, seeing my breath pluming in the cold air clearer than I see you. The only way to accept seeing the body is to mourn the soul.

I want to go back to April. I can taste the sweet berry juice, and see it painted messily on your lips. I almost smile. Almost. I can't allow myself that, because I know I'll never see that smile again. I can feel your warm hands, now grown cold. I can see the enchanting way kindness ruminates inside your eyes, vacant and distant now. Why can't I dive back into those memories? I could forget seeing you like this now, if I had that version back. Like this was just a scary dream. Because I can still hear your laugh. It's far away, lost behind this moment but still there. The wildflowers are still fragrant in this beautiful memory I've thought up.

You look away, and I think I see you blink back tears. I feel a twinge of guilt, but the sound of my discordant heart breaking overpowers that stab of pain. The moonlight paints you, but you aren't a muse anymore. You're the canvas of a crazed artist, who has long since lost their creativity and prestige. I am unable to find the words. So, we sit. We sink into this thick silence.

I don't realize when my hand finds your palm - they still fit together, our hands. Rain beats little stippling drops over our freezing skin... can you even feel the cold, or are you too numb to recall warmth? Am I crying? You can tell I know you aren't the same and that it's crushed me. It crushes you as well.

It's when I come to my senses and press a kiss to your knuckles that I understand. That April is gone, but it renews annually. Your berry stained smile, lost laughter, warm hands, kindness and the wildflowers aren't gone either; no, they've been renewed into something different. You aren't whole anymore, but someone who was dismantled and put back together like a mosaic. You aren't the same, yet your pieces are all there.

And that's enough for me.

So, let me be sweetly soft, and walk into the newest seasons beside you.