The wind howls tonight, rain like tears in its call.
Through the darkness it comes, swirling around houses so warmly lit to keep it at bay.
Sleep, with its own voice, softer and more persistent, draws me to bed.
Clothes are stripped off, and the wind shrieks, shaking at the doors.
Naked I slip between cotton sheets, shivering at their cool touch. And all the time, furtive glances to my phone, waiting…
Waiting for the text in response to mine.
For the text that will bring more warmth to my skin, that will stoke the fire within me.
For the text that will undo a long silence, not broken by talking or touches so far.
I reach up, and turn off the light. Darkness tumbles in, soft, but bringing no comfort.
That text will not come.
A reply will be received at some point. But it will be a dried, pressed rose bringing memories of a summer full of life and laughter, not a wild flower, petals still bleeding with colour, scent so fresh and true, promising endless summers more.
I’m not sure when the chapter closed. I’m not sure when the romance fled.
The wind howls, and I drift off to sleep.