Ghost towns aren’t as doleful.

Early morning storms roll in and I pause at the window to witness. Thunder booms and antique glass rattles. The vibrations start in my feet and move up the length and limbs of my body. The perfection of natural music is something to get misplaced in. A certain melancholy must definitely reside there, in a place that is constantly omitted.

I take a sip from an over sized red mug, hoping its contents will ease the headache that is trying to settle in, from a brain that is trying to get out. The saxophone plays in the background and I feel so weak, leaning against the windows. An oval of fog has covered the glass from my heat and something begins to fall.

A gentle ache rides in, like a man on a slow pony home. Shoulders drooping, chin down. No strength to make your hands grab the reins. You end up anywhere, you’re not looking. It is a life of not watching daybreaks, they’ve become too sad. You’ve learned every detail of the noiselessness that sits in your mouth.

He rode down my street this morning. Plump droplets of rain bouncing off the brim of his hat.

I wanted to run out there to him. Bare feet smashing into puddles. I wanted to hop up behind him, wrap my arms around his waist and let my head rest in the crescent of his neck, so close that when I spoke my lips would graze his skin. I’d whisper, “It doesn’t matter where we go, just take me with you.” He wouldn’t have said a word, he never does. I’d get lost in the scent of resuscitated soil and wet leather and we’d ride off. Never another word spoken. Silences permanently dancing.

Instead I watched him ride down my road, out of the town, out of the state.

Never once looking up.