Why is there a sun that sleeps and wakes each day? A moon that must stretch its old flesh across the sky? Or the stars who trickle its light like the late rain?
And you, why do you stand there against the summer night fields? Quiet and reflecting?
Everything is eternal, here. It is still then we move. The sky changes and so do you.
There is a wound against my right palm and the metal blade glints underneath an old lamp post. You are breathing in the same copper smell. We stare like how we did that first night.
You move and I don't. I can't change.
Blood scatters, a kiss misses and you take me in. I lie my head on your muddy shirt, the earth swirls with the fog of your lungs. We both sit beside the wood that trails for miles. You keep my hands in your own.
You tell me its a pact. We are never to part, to let go.
I can't argue with truth and only whimper as you grip me tighter.
YOU ARE READING
The World's Whispers
General FictionIn the heat of Herwon Valley lies a broadcast station. A radio host, Samuel, resides inside. He hears nothing. This is a collection of what isn't real.
