BadlyDrawnGrrl Posted February 1, 2013 Posted February 1, 2013 (edited) I had a taste for the earth and stones. Pebbles and children of the flood. It was the same weather as this too usually - cold and dry and colorless, the pale shade of weatherworn fencing. I miss it. How can I miss it? I hate myself for missing it. I miss the smallness, the microcosm. I miss the one main road. I miss the cast of characters, the way they'd flicker and drift before us like sad ghosts telling tales. I want that fragile, empty winter, the early dwindling light, the quiet dysfunction, the frozen nights at the local dive. I want that warm body perched beside me feet swinging, drinking sake, being bright. I want it to still be there to go home to, the cabin at the end of the long dirt road through the silent pines. I want those dark mountains frowning down upon us from a great distance: skeptical, disproving of our schemes. But all these are memories; I want it Real. Not this...a silhouette against the back of the inside of my skull...the memory of a face like a photograph of a person who died too young... I know it was bad, that each day was an abrasion, that if we'd just been honest from the start and just said It isn't anything. I just don't want to be alone...how much heartache we could have saved ourselves, trying to create through our bitter machinations the uncreatable. Edited February 1, 2013 by BadlyDrawnGrrl
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