It Was Not Her It Was Me

I lay there on the meadow grass she lay there on grit and dust. We would have made love if the sun had not been raining, if the sky had not been split in two by a word said and worse, a word not said. Eventually I sighed this triggered her sadness and she cried for the ocean she had lost. Sparrow claws scratch over my eyes every water-well in my desert runs dry. Turning to me she said: "now you know." I could only bobble my head in the rearview mirror of her absence.