Random Bits

Blood from your Veins

When I enter your tavern, this is not what I expect to see  

Countertops collecting dust that gleams off the windowpanes, a book, filled with the ignorance of knowledge, open to a page that has not yet been seen, the edges of the paper worn down and weary, like an old dog who's past his glory days, a dog that many would look over and scorn at, but whos still as loving as when he was born. And of course, your shadow, watching me from the corner.

Of course, the shadow contains no trace of your silver tongue or your smoldering eyes. It sits there, silent, patiently waiting. It will never spill your secrets, I'm sure. But it's not like I wanted to reveal them, anyways. They just spilled from my lips, a gold that was not mine. I understand that now. I don't know if I did then.

The ink you left is, of course, still not dry, damp in the pot. And of course, that is what my eyes are drawn to, the pot and the quill and the paper sitting there in the corner.

God, that paper.

Of course, the words don't seem to mind me, bold on the page as they are, as bold as they were the day you wrote them, the day you left me. The day you said you loved me.

I drop the paper I meant for  you, the page slipping from my fingers and floating gently to the floor.

 I thought I came here to remember you, for a piece of you, but it seems you, and your friend, who I know is watching from the other corner, are only listening from behind the pages on the counter. Which makes sense, really. You never were a talker.

And letting go of your words was the hardest part.

But I guess, as I turn around to leave, it was always going to be me who walks away, me who runs, even as you were leaving. Because, really, it was you who knew what was best for us, and I was the coward. You always knew what you had in mind, you held your head high.

You were too beautiful to truly leave my eyes.

You are too pure for me to stain your heart.