White Clay

Our relationship is like mud, all churned together until you can’t tell one thing from another.

But I don’t think it’s sludge. It should be white clay: pure, spotless, untainted.

At first, I was delighted by the stories she told me, and I missed the person who had passed away.

I felt unbearably sad, even more so than she did.

But later, I began to feel a little jealous, a little resentful, along with countless other sorrows I couldn’t name.

I wanted to escape, but couldn’t.

Yet I still believe that fate making me fall in love with her by mistake was, in fact, the right thing.