For Father,
He is built with twine from the forest and shards of glass. Ravens rest in his eyes as he speaks, haunting past events, a raging mouth full of teeth. His words reveal so little, face even less, so cloaked and shrouded in honesty I can't detect any of the lies.
I wait up for him under the watchful streetlamps. Keeping pins rigged in my back and salt in my eyes. Mysteries should be lost to me forever if I drowse, flitted away with him into some corner of morning.
Tell me, Father, what has me so enraptured in the scars on his hands? I know it is not love, nor affection, I am fairly acquainted with them. Violets dripping with molten gold, hearts and hands and eyes and memories. This is deeper than that, an ocean not a lake.
Underneath his muddy clothes I see sleeping a huge black bear. Breathing heavy breathes of mythical dragons. He looks but a twig compared to them, yet weighs a ton. I had to drag him out of the river, dripping and covered in weeds. The spring ice is slick, dangerous, I recommend you keep at a distance.
Gratitude never passed his lips for that, saving his life. Sometimes I wonder if he wanted to die, but that's silly. Someone who's being flings off so many sparks should be lively, all those stories packed inside. In another life he was a storybook, I'm sure.
Dusk creeps up on me, I will end my letter. After dinner I intend to find him, the strange woodland boy. He walks the pathways by the river every night. I can see from my window the pacing of his form, up and down.
Sincerely, She Who Is Wrought With Curiosity
YOU ARE READING
Scraps of A Mind
General FictionUnder my feet is the earth, above my small form is the sky. Both seem endless and vast, stretching onwards forever. In between these things are thoughts, rattling around in my brain like a landslide with no direction. Here are some thoughts, the one...
