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Sometimes I hear songs that burst my heart. I imagine listening to them when I will be older, when being Atlas doesn't suit me any longer and my shoulders break. I imagine cold nights and hoodies, steaming coffees and staggering breaths, my hair in flight.
Fall. Spring. Winter. Memories of seasons entwined with wry nostalgia. Did I breathe faster than falling cherry blossoms? Did I sing off key and hear an echoing applause? Were tables and corners places where I was the loudest? Was I looked at, looked after? Was it better than this deafening silence?
I imagine you to be better; my present self raised to infinity. I imagine you to be okay. I imagine you to be Omelas, where who I am now is trapped so who I will be is happier. I imagine we build a fortress out of a warzone.
Oceans. Forests. Hills. Skies. Neon lights. Drunkards. Stories etched in skins. Music. Loneliness. We'll have seen it all. Can you let me disappoint you now?
I imagine you'll give up faster too. And that's okay. The show can't go on forever.
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A/N
So in case you didn't quite understand it, it is a dialogue between the present and the future self of a person. I'd like your thoughts on this one.
Af.
YOU ARE READING
Hiraeth
PoetryHIRAETH- (n.) A homesickness for a place you can never return to, a place which never was. Previously: Songs Of My Lonely Soul. *** A Song Of My Lonely Soul. A Ballad Of My Heart Whole. A Story That Was Never Said. When We Find It To Be Dead. ...
