The Slope Between Us

We knew it from the start -

not with words, but with that quiet intuition that slips beneath the ribs

when two people recognise a beauty they cannot keep.

 

She called me petit loup.

A name said lightly, almost jokingly,

yet it touched something instinctive -

a tenderness I had forgotten I still carried.

And I, foolish perhaps, called her my sunshine.

As if I could pretend the weather could ever be trusted.

 

Between us, things moved in half-tones.

A gesture more than a promise,

a glance that lingered a breath too long,

the warmth of her hand on my arm -

those small, almost nothing moments that mean everything

and disappear when you try to hold them.

 

Our intimacy was always a weekend light,

that soft gold of late afternoon,

the kind that makes you believe in impossible things

until Monday arrives with its straight lines and closed shutters.

 

During the week, she vanished into her life

with the ease of someone slipping back into well-worn clothes.

“Just good morning, good night,” she said -

as if words had weight, as if too many could topple something delicate.

And I obeyed, though each silence rubbed a thin place in me,

the quiet erosion only lovers at a distance can name.

 

We stepped into an old choreography

without ever learning the steps anew.

Her step backward, my step forward -

each of us convinced we were moving freely,

each of us repeating what we had always done.

 

And yes, we were Sisyphus -

not tragic, not grand,

but in that small human way

of rolling the same desire up the same fragile slope

knowing it will return to our feet by nightfall.

 

She gave me permission to flirt with anyone I wished.

A sentence said with a smile,

light as a leaf,

but it landed like a forecast -

a reminder that sunshine wanders,

that skies change without warning,

that warmth isn’t ownership, only weather.

 

And yet: when we were together,

she was the clear day after weeks of rain,

the kind of light that makes you stand still

just to feel your skin waking up.

 

I didn’t need belonging.

Just more time.

A few hours stolen from a world that had no space for us,

a little corner of the day where I could forget the coming night.

 

But the truth is simple, almost elegant:

she preferred the undefined, the unnamed, the mystery,

and I lived for the clearing in the clouds.

We were equal parts enchantment and impossibility.

 

Still, if this was frustration -

it was the French kind:

quiet, intimate,

a sigh rather than a cry,

a hand on the doorframe that lingers

a second longer than it should.

 

And in another life -

perhaps the weather would have held.

Perhaps sunshine could have stayed.

Perhaps petit loup would not always be waiting at the bottom of the hill,

stone at his feet,

ready to try again.