Her- A lost memory

Her

"It's nine o'clock, and its time for the morning headlines: A high speed rail has fatally collided with a single male pedestrian on the southern-railroad crossing—"

Beeping in the corner, the alarm clock signalled the moment of my awakening, seven o'clock.

Tired in the corner the ancient machine slowly announced its morning news decree. Tired, I would guess was the journalist, much like me, who droned along with the monotonous headlines, whilst signalling the wrong time. Pressing the remote, that lay asleep in the warm pockets of the burgundy sofa, I gave rest to the television.

Dressed in an emerald coloured suit and dark rimmed shades that sat proudly on my nose ridge. I peered around, inhaling and exhaling the beauty that I walked through. Soft glowing rays of auburn shimmered through the crisp morning air, caressing the puffs of opal, leaving behind strokes of honey on the azure canvass. Sweet smells of Arabian spices wafted through the linen covers, that shrouded the waking street below. Chirping of the vehicles seeped through, enveloped with the soft and muffled noises of the cotton like snow below, carefully treaded upon by the morning walkers, the students, and the panicked employees.

My eyes like pilgrims appreciated all the content smiles of these morning pedestrians, greeting all with my broad smile, and my kind eyes returning the warmth of happiness. All was going well. Through the cobbled street I marched, my footsteps gently crunching the fresh snow below. All was going well.

Suddenly, my calm eyes erupted with panic; my content smile vanished; my face tensed. Disbelief shrouded me, it drowned me, it devoured me. I could not believe what these pilgrim like eyes had witnessed. Yet I knew, it was her. The rouge cheeks; the soft, muted eyes; the delicate-features on her face, I knew them. I glanced into her eyes: dark pools of walnut, with glints of caramel specked across; drowning was I in the memories I had, in the lost memories of her. She had seen me, she knew I knew of her presence, so she walked daintily down the cobbled street, taking care to move swiftly, avoiding the gentle calls that I made to her. She kept walking forwards, forwards into the abyss of the crisp morning. Ultimately, she stopped. She turned around. She looked back at me.

Slowly, hypnotised in my disbelief, entranced by my memories of her, I inched forward, constantly falling deeper into the depths of her eyes. I came closer, closer, and closer. My feet slowly climbed the metal rails, the cold basalt. I knew not of where I was walking to, or walking on, all I knew was her. I felt her warm breath on my neck, I could now smell the sweet fragrance of a nostalgic scent, yet I sat in oblivion to what it was. I sank lower and lower into the depths of her almond like eyes. Wisps of brunette waved over her olive skin, blown by rising winds, strong as if I were in an opening in a vast open landscape. Muted sounds slowly drifted into my ears, yet like a devotee I ignored, like a pilgrim I stared at her sweet face.

Ultimately, her rosy lips parted and mouthed, "It is time, it is time for us to go". My now parched lips, subdued by emotions, strained and opened, forming a light smile. Tears seeped from my now drowning eyes. I knew it indeed was her. My mortal self again acknowledged a soft yet growing sound in foreground of my present, yet it was unimportant for me. I raised my hand with affection, reaching for her—

"It's nine o'clock, and its time for the morning headlines: A high speed rail has fatally collided with a single male pedestrian on the southern-railroad crossing—"

Tired in the corner the ancient machine slowly announced its morning news decree. Beeping in the corner, the alarm clock signalled moment of my awakening, seven o'clock. My eyes parted open, from another nightmare of her, yet it was another day, and all was going to be well.

Tired, I would guess was the journalist, much like me, who droned along with the monotonous headlines, whilst signalling the wrong time. Pressing the remote, that lay asleep in the warm pockets of the burgundy sofa, I gave rest to the television.