Waking up has always been a chore of sorts, wincing at the smallest ounce of sunlight on your face. Doesn't matter.
The shards of living have been lifted from the depths of my wary soul by the thought of her. If the winds churning away at my face had a colour, it would be serendipitously brown. My tranquil is hanging by a thread, my head is filled with the shape of hers and i can almost mould it. Almost.
I suppose it is all in the wait.
Getting out of the bath and unceremoniously hearing the perfect sound of boiling water and the smell that comes afloat with it. Divine. They say, Light travels faster than sound, if i may so add, the humbling smell comes not far behind, it's magnitude forcing us mortals to be mindful of every moment.
I am not a very structured lad, my father always used to say, and presumably so
What other way is there to describe my ferocious longing for things that take me to a certain time? The broken wine glass from that first unrest marking the dawn of an unholy youth, the unsettling weight of the first book that was never written, the wilted flower settling uncomfortably between a get well soon card that never got sent. Though I'm eerily certain that my mother got it because there were two of them, a pink rose and a white tulip. She always liked tulips better. I'm haunted by her hopeful opinions of me to this day and I wonder if this raw flesh and crackling bones of mine would be a person, if she was still here.
I live with a fear of not being a rigorous monotony. I've toiled hard to lock these walls for anyone to come in my time and space.
But that doesn't mean I'm not going to. The smirk twitches when my mind brings her up. " Stick to the plan, Nathan ". The sound hits like an eerily ringing bell in my ears. Yes, yes I will.
