Frozen

I would smash my watch, and make time stop.

It's a picture perfect scene. I hug my knees and lay down my head. I breathe in the salty smell of the sea and smile. A breeze in my hair. Nature keeps going, but you are frozen.

We are alone on the beach, under a dark sky of stars. The lonely moon has never seemed bigger and all I can hear is the crashing of the waves.

I take a look at you. You're staring out at the sea. Relaxed, content. You have the softest eyes I've ever seen. Even in moments like these, when you know the outcome can't be good, you seem to take it all in stride. It's disconcerting, the fact that I don't know how to provoke a reaction.

You've asked a question I don't want to answer.

And I know I'm a coward. I know I've been holding on to something that can't continue. And I know that no matter the answer I give, you're going to smile, and you're going to be okay with it. Be a comfort. But there comes a point when comfort isn't so comfortable anymore.

I can't deal with it, and so I'm going to run away from it.

I stand up, take one last look at you, still frozen in time. I turn my back and walk away. I have an overwhelming sense of loss and sadness, but it's better than the alternative.