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Written by Lisa Zaran

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 after, when you are driving 
75 miles one way just to get to her 
and her wind-touched hair, 
bleached white by the September 
sun, the gray sky coughing up clouds, 
that is when the doubts surface, 
hard as stones.
it is late afternoon by the time you arrive, the storm has already been through here.
you are not in your own element.
you are a runaway.
but, then she is there, standing right in front of you, wet with rain, slender as a branch.
you watch as she makes her way over and your heart gardens, rupturing red.
Originally Published in Lily, Volume 1, Issue 8, July 2004 Copyright © Lisa Zaran, 2004

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