Some Other Kind of Death

Herb Alpert often plays in my dreams. Recounting all of the beauty we once held in our palms. A beauty that could last an eternity if cared for and listened to.

The beauty in Herb’s words soothed us day and night. Reminding us how much we loved and need love. A need that faulted us with the threat of death.

We held on as tight as we could. Moved in to protect it from all the horrors of our absence; stayed by its’ side, holding it close with reassurance that we would never let go.

But that love began to squirm, push and bite, trying to stretch its’ legs but held firm by a frightful grip.

The more it pushed back, the more we squeezed and pleaded for a hopeful prediction. Taking each stab as an unintentional misdirect of previously held trauma.

Sooner than we expected, it began to halter in its fight. The love would no longer squirm, for it seemed to settle in an acceptance of the loss of its life.

We couldn’t tell that we were suffocating our love. We thought we had finally quenched its worries and found that Sun-kissed reality.

But when I looked through the cracks of our palms and I saw the corpse that lay there, I knew I couldn’t tell you the truth, for I squeezed harder than either of us.

So, when your back was turned, I took its corpse and threw it out the nearest window; claiming it was stolen by something much stronger than I could deal with.

But that lie shattered us more than any death could. And now I drive, mile after mile, passenger-less, hoping Herb can remind me what that love once felt like.