Dried Fruit

Last night she cried over me. I could hear her weep over the phone. There was no word that existed in which I could use to make right her ailments. A baby, another baby coming into this world that was not asked for and would not be well received. Another life that would take away from from one that already breathed air, had goals and plans. A baby that wasn’t her’s , yet again. Life taking shape in a workshop that didn’t want it, when there was a vacancy awaiting opportunity. Just tally after tally of the women she could never be. She person she for so long had pictured since being a princess on Halloween. Now a queen who can not pass on her tiara. That crown is dust covered, rusted, and lost. Those others , whom aren’t queens or even close, can bear fruit that has dried up inside of her. They can harvest life as her crop withers away each attempt at a new season. He no longer tries with her. Effort is sweeter when met with success. The love is present, the urge has faded. He’s found success away from her, once again. Nothing to say and nothing to do, but listen, to tears wash over a receiver. She cried last night , this morning , and I cried with her.