I sit, and reminisce about old days: the sound of laughter from friends long since lost, warm breezes that left a cool imprint on my skin, and those certain, special summer nights that have embedded themselves into my memory.
I sit, and think about the things I have done: the stories told, the dreams left behind to crumble to dust.
And most of all, as I sit, washing my hair, I start to cry. I'm not sure if there's a specific reason for the tears, but it doesn't matter either way. My hands stop their cleansing motions and lower back into the water, foggy with bubbles and soap.
What if maybe, just maybe, I am crying for the simple relief of it?
I suppose it makes sense. And if it doesn't, who's really there to tell me otherwise? Perhaps I am just too sensitive.
And so, I wipe my eyes, feel more tears begin to swell,
and I sit, washing my hair.
YOU ARE READING
Peradventure
Teen FictionA warning: this book contains sensitive material and just general teenage angst. Please approach with caution, unless you're looking for one hell of a collection of stories.
