Thoughts About Her

From the first time I saw her I knew. She acted with a sort of finesse that I craved. I made the move, and it was successful.

When I was ready to ship out she was there. She comforted me, and waved goodbye as the plane departed. I began thinking about her.  

She was the only thing keeping me alive. With the overbearing destruction and explosions eminent, she was with me. My squad was pressured, but stoically I sat, thinking about her.

The letter came on a Sunday. It was waiting for me. I opened the slip, revealing the letter. It was different. It wasn’t her handwriting. I’d been waiting for this moment, and it destroyed me. Yet, I couldn’t stop thinking about her.

When I returned she wasn’t there. She was at the church. I drove there, thinking about her. I stood over the patch of grass and marble, thinking about her, alone. As the tear hit the grass, I thought about the first time I’d met her. As the tear hit the concrete I thought about the last time I’d seen her. As the tear hit the pillow I thought about how I’d never see her.