‘Drops of Jupiter’

Now that she’s back in the atmosphere I can’t function. I can’t eat, sleep, I can’t even walk in a straight line. When did she come back? Why didn’t I know? What made her change her mind? Her final screams of abandoning the hell-hole nest I’d created for myself are still ringing in my ears, the death knell on our bond.


I saw her. She was walking, she didn’t see me. It’s probably for the best: someone with drops of Jupiter glistening in their hair shouldn’t associate with the pound-shop refugee. To hold out my hand and touch her, verify her as reality would have been comforting, overwhelming, exhilarating. To hear about her sailing across the sun, visiting the Milky Way – leaving me in my gutter.


I look back, just once more, because I know she will never look as far back as me. As far back as a dirty, cold night in the dankest corners of the universe that smell of disgust and shame. The woman, my uteral companion, is across the street and worlds away. Games of shadow puppets and bravery hover on the bleak horizon of the past, because the future has no space for them. She saw me sink into a perennial past full of bad choices and bad people. She got hurt. She ran.


She ran solo.


I’m left with the frozen recesses of Neptune. She’s basking in the spring glow of Jupiter, moving ever closer to the sun. Divergence. Parallels of glory and misery.


We both deserve this.


© BookofTomorrow


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