Tears from the Moon

The rain beat down on his umbrella, a constant drumming as fat droplets hit the tightly-stretched fabric. There was no other noise; not even his footsteps penetrated the soft hiss of water hitting pavement.

Only the dim glow of street lamps lit up the night, though sometimes he could see the faint glow of the full moon from behind the cloud cover.

He'd been unable to sleep, tossing and turning as his mind went over all the ways the conversation could have gone. Could he have said this? Would that have made it worse? How could he have made it better? His every thought was of her and how their discussion had gone.

Everything he'd wanted to say, should have said, rang through his head now, drowning out even the rain. He would do anything for her, so why hadn't he said as much?

It was easy to hold himself together during the day, when people could see him, could judge him. But when the sun set and he found himself alone, his thoughts inevitably went to her.

Now she was lost. A memory, haunting his nights, his dreams. Why couldn't the ghost of her memory leave him alone, the same way she had done? He'd lost her, and instead of fighting to keep her, telling her the things he knew - now - that she had needed to hear, he'd just let her go.

He sagged, the umbrella lowering. Drops of rain hit his face, mingling with the tears that rolled down his cheeks. Looking up to the moon, he cried, letting the water wash over him.

It didn't take away the pain.

It never did.