Umbrella

You’re drawn to me, to my negative spaces, to my shadows. I don’t like to acknowledge it, and neither do you, or perhaps you’re simply unaware. I wouldn’t blame you. It’s almost like falling asleep–the incremental slowness of your eyelids closing, heart tapping, and then swathes of time passing–except mine is like falling in a dream, and bursting awake, and yours is the drowsy, heavy stupor of morning. You didn’t know it yet at the time, but we made an umbrella of sorts, allowing us to forget the blurring cold of the rain, and coaxes a sense of comfort between friends. I’ve always craved comfort.

And that’s where it should have ended, that umbrella. Umbrellas are meant for comfort, but they’re not overhangings on porches, and they’re certainly not ceilings or houses; they’re impermanent in their fixture, and still apt to let in some rain. I already had a house (at least I thought so), and he was sturdy, warm, and I was loathe to leave. Our umbrella was a surprising addition, and, as it was, I needed some rain here and there.

But that’s all it ever was. Or so I thought. And when that umbrella began to solidify under our touch, when it felt like it was sheltering me from more than the unpredictable storm, and I grew dry and drowsy under its roof, it felt right. It felt good. But I still had that house, and its permanence you could never contend with, and maybe in another space, another future, you were my house and he was the umbrella, but that wasn’t here, and it wasn’t now.

So I’m sorry. I’m sorry that friendship we made didn’t last, I’m sorry I left you with questions without answers. And I’m sorry he was my here and now, and you... you were the impermanent fabric canopy that still let in a little rain.