one hundred story #37: Imperfect

It's all so gorgeous, the grass perking up as the sun peeks over the horizon, that first brush of light across your cheeks quenching a thirst you didn't know you had. It's too much, the perfection of a morning when songbirds and antelope and jackrabbits are all out there, alive, lungs lurching and legs loping. Even though you're still here, she isn't. The worst part is that first morning after she’s gone, your eyes are heavy with her, the air parched. This need, it makes you thirsty. And still the sun, the songbirds, the antelope, the jackrabbits, are not enough.