"What could I have said?" her lips began to quiver and those amber eyes stood still in the haze of a winter's storm. A beehive of tears contoured her face, gradually, she became less and less herself like Salvador Dali's Tête Raphaëlesque éclatée. I knew it was our undoing, our strife for more than what we deserved to have - our time together had come to its' inevitable end - still we clung to the fabric of each others' clothes, trying for the scent of, what was once, home. Only to lose ourselves again and again and again, only to plunder through the ice of the following morning, only to regret and regret and regret the words we hurdled at each other, only for our faces to bulge out in sessions of temperament both hot and cold.
Her eyes drooped in anxious wait for what I might hold onto next, "something" cut through her like a stake might've pierced the left side of Dracula's chest. Just like that, all that had been built was lost, where would our confessions go? would they strike our faces with salty tears until we'd wash the stains away with clearer water? where would we go, now, as separate beings? if not the past, then who might we cling onto?
The afternoon sun shown dimly over the pastels of the room, where our coats used to hang, a towel and an old baseball jacket inhabit the space. Though the shadows of our coats still persist. I ought to paint that door, so that the shadows might disappear, to make space for new ones.
Each night I leave a chore undone to give me a reason to wake up in the morning, this morning it was the laundry that needed hanging.
YOU ARE READING
Once Upon A Time, Time Stopped
PoetryDon't let your mind wander too far, for it will lose its selves - soul, thought and body. A soul that has lost its body is like a cat straying until it cannot pick up the familar scent of home anymore. It never returns, falling slave to a human God...
