He is made of self-promises, an uncanny wish to make something—accomplish—do—be, and of beginnings. His eyes hold the rising of the sun over wild grasses of greens and golden ones of age. Hair the color of beams settling themselves in place, glinting with refracted light.

She is of whispers, of families coming back together, unfinished things and accomplished ones. Her hair is the darkness that follows after the disappearing light. Her eyes of the bright moonlight. Skin cooler every time you touch.

The one only sees those leaving with glazed eyes from slumbering homes, reluctance in their gaits. Only hears complaints, soft words and music, and good mornings.

The other is troubled by those returning, their right foot heavy upon metal, hearts filled with at lasts, curses, plans and music that beats hearts.

One feels hope and regret wafting off of patrons. The other anger of not finishing, but oh so glad that it’s over.

One cannot wait for the other to take the weight from them. The other all too happy—but very reluctant to give it back.

They are the Sevens.

Enemies and forbidden lovers doomed to never meet—touch—love.

Twelve hours apart and forever between.

So much change. An endless journey that never pauses, never waits, never lets one breathe.

Those who wish to stay with Her, coddled in the noise and memories and chaos She creates, must be forced away with the ticking of clocks.

Those who wish to stay with Him, wrapped in His lover-like embrace are always taken away only to be returned more desperate to remain.

He hates Her for that. Returning them broken.

She hates Him for making it Her duty to try and renew the fun in them, hand them off to Her and demand that they be shown a time they remember when young. Force Her to play a game that will damage or refresh.

But when all is played right, She loves watching His eyes of dayrise fill with thanks as He cradles who She has passed to him, their heads listening to His heart of hope and promise.

And He loves Her for the ideas. Ones made through the day or just before sleep, so that He may hold their hand as they fall into a craze of creating. Thanks to Her, He can see determination and excitement in their eyes—see them rush to jot it all down.

She loves Him for giving Her the tired—tired of fighting—the stuck, and the burnt out and return them to Him with a loud or quiet decision—answer—for Him to accomplish.

He loves Her for that.

They are the Sevens.

Enemies and forbidden lovers doomed to never meet—touch—love.

Twelve hours apart and forever between.

So much change. An endless journey that never pauses, never waits, never lets one breathe.

The buzz-saw snarled and rattled in the yard, awakening me from dreams of the house being mine. Curious, and heart seizing with worry, I follow the sound, to the porch where I promised myself that I would live here while looking over at the forest that coddles the back yard. But that forest—that forest that I heard the cicadas cry from and where little things and big things of life stalked and roamed—is now nothing but red dust.

Buzzing, hungry machinery denigrates the shade—the barrier between highway and home. Saws carve at great trunks that are too big to be pushed over by bulldozers, their sprays of woodchips absorbed by the red. And as it falls—as it all falls, tears stain my dusty cheeks. The great whoomphs as the trees smack the ground, I feel it like a great punch to the chest. The snapping branches as they cave under the weight, the same sound and feeling of my soul breaking and twisting.

My heart breaking, for just yesterday, in the watery sunlight that made the green of the trees baby new and the shadows set by them, dark as sapphire, I promised myself that I would live in this house. Raise my kids in the same rooms as me and my siblings, sit them in the same kitchen, keep the band aids just where they are for me, build them a playset where mine once was.

But that place, that view, that dream, is now nothing but red, red dust.