The same damn fucking sky.
The same one she's stared at every single day.
She's tired of staring at the same one every single day.
She's tired of seeing the sun rise and set, the colors changing from bright, to dull, to nothing.
She's tired of thinking
How could we be seeing the same damn fucking sky yet the only thing that changed is us?
She's tired of remembering
That late afternoon when the sky was purple a few years ago, and she asked him to look at it with her too.
She's really just tired
That the only thing that brings her this much comfort is one that hurts her at the same time.
Every change in the sun's position is a constant reminder for her that she feels stuck---that she doesn't want the day to end. Because another day means the same routine over and over again that involves
Staring.
At.
The.
Same.
Damn.
Fucking.
Sky.
but maybe this time, perhaps, she should stick around to see the stars form around the moon.
and if she doesn't see any,
well,
good luck to her.
YOU ARE READING
Fragmented
RandomA series of unfinished beginnings, endings, and sometimes their own words in between. This is a collection of storylines I ponder about, but I know I most likely do not have the agency to write each story its missing pieces.
