rain

she was drinking rain-flavored gatorade in a rainy bus station in a small town--"in the middle of nowhere," she liked to say. cars and homes and people filled the few square miles of the town, which was bordered by fields, mountains, and space.

"oooh, to have space," she whispered to herself, hugging her knees to her small chest. she had physical space with the land, but not from her life, her relationship.

she had started, though, started creating more space. she had turned off the phone, removed the battery, and threw it away. the battery she threw atway in a separate trash receptacle--"so it will be very hard." very hard for anyone to find her, to even get in touch with her.

distancewise, she was so close to the place she called home for so many years; but she was here, waiting for the bus, ticket in her pocket--she knew she was already miles from home.

and miles from their hearts.

and miles towards her own heart.