Vignette
She sipped the strong, sweet espresso. Yawned. Checked her phone one more time. So alone. The irony of sad music swept through her body, how she hated that body, betrayal, so hatefully betrayed. She had begged it to give up so many times. It kept speaking slowly, relentlessly, about change.
Hopeless guitar chords, the beauty of someone else's voice singing her own words, and she lamented, for the first time in weeks, that the sunshine had disappeared, leaving only clouds. The warmth she had felt on Saturday dissipated, just a wasted year and wasted love and the desire to be wasted.
And she could vaguely feel the city behind her window, the world turning towards her. Time was that the secret rush of change was all she needed, and now she longed to stand still. To freeze those past few months and never leave them, wander through their sunshined streets, their rainy afternoons in the park and their late nights, communing with nobody and everything, as the endless stars wishfully spun stories of what might be.
He had gone and everything fell apart, and even though she had read all the signs, knew so intimately every breath he drew beside her at night, that it had not come as a surprise. But lord she missed it all. Quarter life and so tired; is this all she had to wait up for? What was the point in looking forward to more of the same? As cities rolled beneath her feet, travel dissipated into loss every time, and honestly what was the point if we always moved on alone.
Her dress cut long to hide her knees, which she hated. Resisted the urge, walking by the river that morning, to throw herself from the bank into its depths. Knowing of course that the river was slow-moving and silted, barely five feet deep in places. Suddenly she missed home desperately, where waters ran deep and cold, pulling secrets into their depths and holding them close, merciless in their bitter, twisted courses. Young rivers for a young land, she knew deep down that she did not belong here, just as the water in this strange nation ran, stagnant and shallow, under her feet each morning, and again in the afternoon. Ophelia must have drugged herself first, she thought, there is no way that these waterways could be capable of murder otherwise. Accidental death.
Hopeless guitar chords, the beauty of someone else's voice singing her own words, and she lamented, for the first time in weeks, that the sunshine had disappeared, leaving only clouds. The warmth she had felt on Saturday dissipated, just a wasted year and wasted love and the desire to be wasted.
And she could vaguely feel the city behind her window, the world turning towards her. Time was that the secret rush of change was all she needed, and now she longed to stand still. To freeze those past few months and never leave them, wander through their sunshined streets, their rainy afternoons in the park and their late nights, communing with nobody and everything, as the endless stars wishfully spun stories of what might be.
He had gone and everything fell apart, and even though she had read all the signs, knew so intimately every breath he drew beside her at night, that it had not come as a surprise. But lord she missed it all. Quarter life and so tired; is this all she had to wait up for? What was the point in looking forward to more of the same? As cities rolled beneath her feet, travel dissipated into loss every time, and honestly what was the point if we always moved on alone.
Her dress cut long to hide her knees, which she hated. Resisted the urge, walking by the river that morning, to throw herself from the bank into its depths. Knowing of course that the river was slow-moving and silted, barely five feet deep in places. Suddenly she missed home desperately, where waters ran deep and cold, pulling secrets into their depths and holding them close, merciless in their bitter, twisted courses. Young rivers for a young land, she knew deep down that she did not belong here, just as the water in this strange nation ran, stagnant and shallow, under her feet each morning, and again in the afternoon. Ophelia must have drugged herself first, she thought, there is no way that these waterways could be capable of murder otherwise. Accidental death.
*disclaimer*
The above is artistic and bears little resemblance to real life.
Please do not comment that I seem 'sad'.
The above is artistic and bears little resemblance to real life.
Please do not comment that I seem 'sad'.
posted by Care | 3:21 PM
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