White Lines and Silence

I saw her arrive

and I immediately knew who she was.

I saw her face,  

I saw her eyes,

her skin

and the clothes she was wearing,

all lit by the blue and red of flashing lights.

I saw her fear.

I saw her confusion.

I answered the policeman’s questions,

with a voice that didn’t sound like mine

and words that didn’t matter.

He scribbled into his little notepad.  

I stared as slow raindrops smudged the ink

once,

twice,

three times

and I shook,

from a cold that didn’t exist.

I didn’t see him arrive,

by then I’d turned away,

not wanting to impose a pain that wasn’t mine to feel.

But I heard him.

I heard him when my back was turned,

my face pressed against your chest,

your arms around me.

I heard him making sounds I’ll never forget

as your heartbeat and warmth became all I was now certain of.

You were real,

You were;

Alive.

Which felt both comforting and sickeningly unfair.

I remember the guilt I felt in the days that followed.

Sometimes it was there before I even got a chance to feel the full happiness  

and at other times it didn’t show up until after,

until after I’d laughed at a joke or smiled for a photo.

I remember sitting at the café,

bright sunlight spilling in,

the voices of the people I loved most washed over me

as I ate a colourful plate filled with my favourite foods,  

that turned to ash in my mouth

and seemed to never end.

All I could think about were her eyes and his sobs.

All I could think about was his face,

his body,

that I never once saw move.

All I could think about were how vividly the white lines stood out against the hard black road,

the smell of rain

and the silence of the walk home.

The walk home that we got to do;

and he didn’t.