The rush and decline

There you are in black ink. I see you, one eye blinking behind the shade of your sandy hair. I ran back to the road to meet you at the gate, barefoot on black mud and moss. When I arrived you weren't there. It rains here and the water drops swell on the roof and pour in a stream making little rivers in the garden. I planted three seeds. None of them have grown but one almost started to sprout roots... Almost. I remember the white Styrofoam cup sitting on the dashboard of your red truck. I remember when I was 8 and covered myself in mud, red earth like rust. Rocks sliding off hills. Bouncing in and out of potholes, the white cup sits balanced and still as I slip back in the seat unaware of the timing.