Vermilion
- Rylie Martin
- 3 days ago
- 2 min read
I skipped town.
Not because there was somewhere else to be.
Only somewhere I couldn't.
I left
trying to do right.
No wonder it all feels so wrong.
Finally,
a gas station where nobody knows
whose future fiancée I was.
My rabbits never ask
where we are,
nor where you went.
I keep telling myself this trip is for me
and I almost believe it.
Homesick.
But where is home anymore?
Somewhere between leaving and arriving,
I'm becoming an island.
Every mountain
looks at me with your eyes.
I drive closer,
then the blue gives way to stone.
Maybe distance
is the only way love can keep its colors.
Like trees
that spend
their entire lives
rooted apart,
meeting only
in the canopy.
I've deleted
every app
except the ones
that couldn't
remember us.
I've gone rogue.
I've gone analog.
I don't have to ask the daisies
if you love me.
I know you do.
I just don't know if it's enough.
Only you and God could answer that.
The strangest part isn't being alone.
It's having no one to witness it.
Joy
only feels half-finished
unless I can turn to show you.
I keep collecting stories
for someone who isn't here.
Maybe because you were supposed to.
At least my rabbits listen.
Unlike dogs,
they never rush
to lick away
my tears.
They simply stay.
And that’s all I could ask for.
Love
with nowhere to go
learns to keep its hands to itself.
Then becomes restless,
reaches into memory like a pocket,
finds nothing but lint.
Vermilion.
Red has never been my color.
Until life made me wear it.
The color of scraped knuckles.
Bitten lips.
Sunburn, seatbelts, backpack straps—
everything that rubs you raw
from loving something
that won't stay still.
No matter where you go,
lost love leaves a residue.
I thought this was moving on.
Really,
I've still been looking for you
to remember this with.
Then the storm in Iowa came.
Quivering tent,
two frightened rabbits
turned to me.
I wanted to be held.
But that night
taught me to hold.
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