The rise and fall of your chest matched the beating of your heart, the constant rhythm that you had. The one that your on-going tapping mimicked, and your speaking was matched to. Everything that you did was in time with the steady bass line that your heart gave out, even the small things like your blinking. You ran on an internal metronome, and your actions were your instruments.
Your voice was smooth; gracefully flowing through the room even when the words had recklessly tumbled out of your mouth. Your vocabulary had the range of a grand piano, and your sentences were the most complicated yet beautiful chords. You were walking music, and God, did I love a good melody.
YOU ARE READING
Dying Embers
General FictionNonsense writing, too short to be short stories, and too different to be put together.
