(part three of three)
Dreaming, and the sand comes near you. You are running though the dunes, seeking what you left behind. Where should you look? Above you is a single cloud, opening as you watch it. A single cloud, and within it, a single drop of rain. The water reaches down to you as you reach with wanting up for it. Wash me, touch me, sooth me, you want to say, as you run, as the sand pulls back behind you, pulling you back behind you, reaching up to scorch you as you reach with lips so parched with thirst to drink what you wish would swallow everything.
“Lilly,” speaks a deep and female voice. You turn. A hallway is before you. Do you walk its length? Have you any other length to walk?
But you won’t look back. It is all over. You are over it and then some. Or at least, in the least, you are doing your best to walk away.
“Tell me a story,” you say, pleading one last time, for maybe a key to solve this something pulling at you from all around you, pulling at you from your loud and silent and awfully tense insides.
But there are no stories, you discover, in this place that somehow swallows all these pieces of your thirst. There are no stories left to sooth you, to give you peace of mind.
And as you walk away from me, (your hate and love and lovely self), you lift your hand to let this go, to give us back, to forgive, forgo, just like the wind and the sand and the rain.