It was cold out. Too cold for this kind of nonsense. This teen-aged residency. Too cold to be up here feeling the grit of the roof under his boots. Too easy to see his own breath. Like he needed proof it still existed.
But he hadn't visited Orion in years. And the moon may have never been this full in all the history of words.
He wondered where he had gotten such a foolish sense of romanticism. And couldn't decide if he was well or poorly served by it.
He glanced up while she looked down. Full figured glowing siren. Who decided it was a man up there? She's so easy to see.
He couldn't quite feel his fingers anymore. But he's always been a sucker for the wide eyes. So he lay back, paid his respects and thought, "I'll give it two more songs."
all the same:
he liked the way her handwriting looked. the motion of the lines. the curves. the meaning hidden in something as simple as the shape of an i.
he wasn't sure that it mattered in the slightest. but he felt it all the same.
a (very) short story:
he can't shake the feeling
that he's playing every hand
wrong.
but it's not his fault
he keeps drawing
hearts.
sometimes i just have to lie still
and wait for my pulse to go back to normal
and for the heat to stop rising to my cheeks
and for my breaths to return to their proper depth
before i can hope to begin drifting to sleep.
if only the same method
worked on the madness
of my mind.
a (very) short story:
not all stories need multiple characters.
despite his longing for a female pronoun.
besides, maybe first person is more honest.
a (very) short story:
"i don't know what to do,"
he thought during every other inhale.
the saddest part was
that thought hadn't been new
in decades.
a (very) short story:
the ink from the stamp always lingers on his skin. and he can see a metaphor in everything.
While I was putting it
back in its cage,
I think the other one
got back out.
I'll have to compare
the bite marks
to be certain.
Just wait
for the
fresh wound.
a (very) short story:
"you've taken what you gave away," he said.
"what exactly do you think i gave?" she replied.
a (not so very) short story:
and he kept reading
despite thinking
perhaps
that he should not
hitting the next arrow
and pausing
momentarily
to think,
"why does she have to be so good?"
hitting the next arrow
and pausing
momentarily
to think,
"or is it because it's like reading myself?"
hitting the next arrow
and pausing
momentarily
to think,
"or is it that i love to mourn the death of ghosts?"
and she kept writing
not knowing
for a moment
what had happened
The answer is still "Three after he decides to stop letting them."
The real question is when will he decide?
Besides, you can't be mad at the trap he willingly stepped in.
Earlier today a friend told me they had a bad day and they thanked me for making music they could curl up to and find comfort in. It meant a lot to me because no ones ever really said that about my music.
And now, at a bad end to a day that was cursed by ghosts from the beginning, I too turn to music for some comfort.
If I can be to someone else what Atmosphere is to me then maybe there's a point to all these random words that haunt me.
"People say his brain is infected by devils."
When being plagued by unpleasant early morning dreams, I think most people would wake up in order to escape. For some reason it make me want to keep sleeping. In the hopes that either they will stop and I will dream something better before I wake up or I will somehow be able to change the dream and it's outcome. Apparently my desire to fix things continues even when mostly unconscious.
But, as in life much of the time, such fixes are not possible. So, instead, I wake up standing in the midst of a deep hole that I must spend the rest of the day digging myself out of.
Good mourning.
