It was like a pit opening in her stomach, both dragging and propelling. It was a want and a need to understand – it was a yearning to respect and cherish, but an imperative plea to stay safe… to stay warm… to stay away.

The rift was understandable to me, and that was the worst part. In my best conscious, I could say I did nothing wrong. I could know it too – but the matters of the rift itself are irrelevant when the rift is gaping at your feet. You don’t justify – you don’t cry for help or seek understanding – you fix the rift.

Yet, you don’t. Not right away.

You stand as the rift drags you in and pushes you away. As your body is stretched – as it warps and creases. Your pleas and cries and explanations cannot be heard by the rift.

The rift doesn’t care why.

It doesn’t care whether you did, or you didn’t, and even if you didn’t, it doesn’t care what you’re going to do to continue not doing it. You fix.

In the rain, you fix it.

Sitting in bed another night, you fix it.

When you have been unkind, you fix it.

It has been fixed.

We have fixed the rift, and I feel somewhat forgiven…

… so why do I still walk around its edge?

I feel not dragged, nor repelled.

Maybe someday, we can sit on that edge together,

and just talk.