(no subject)
I close my eyes and step through the doorway. The crisp air that greets my bare face mixes with the smell of burning leaves as I take in a blow breath. The streets are dimly lit, lined with tall oak and olm trees. Some are reduced to the skeleton that lies underneath their leaves, others still clings to the last of theirs, still colorful and rich. The pavement of the side walk is lined with them, brittle and dry. I love the colors of autumn. The reds, oranges, and browns seem more vibrant this year.
Slowly I start on my promenade. I take each step forward slowly. There is a crackle beneath my soles. IT’s almost a saddening sound. As if each leaf has it’s own pulse, it’s own veins. It’s alive and uniquely beautiful way, but no one stops to appreciate it. No one slows down to glance.
It’s late, but Mrs. Johnson is out. She sits on her front porch and looks on at the night. It seems like she’s waiting for her son to come home, like she did when I was young. Some nights, she visits him up the curved street at the cemetery.
“Hello, Sweetheart.”
Her voice is so kind, so delicate, it’s unique in the way it warms you, it’s curious. I smile and wave back to her, continuing my walk up the road. The wind is being kicked up into my face, it sings my cheeks and makes me take one step back with each two forward. At that moment the bell sticks twelve. I quicken my pace. I have no idea where he is, where he could be. It waited all day. In the evening I called, there way no answer, only taunting rings. He is always on time, always answers the phone, or at lest has his message machine on. My mind is in a fluster over him. It’s a chasm of thoughts; stressful and panicked. It takes so much work to hold them back. Once I do, it may be only moments until the floodgate breaks. I force myself to stop, force myself to think a positive thought. Hell, I force myself to breath.
There is something about him. Something about his smile, the way he looks at me. Not judging, but pondering. Considering. He could make any person become completely infatuated with him, with his mind, with his thoughts. He rarely grants anyone the privilege of glancing inside of him. Into the organized chaos of his thoughts. I think I am one of those few. He told me he I was his muse. He touches my cheek every night when we say goodbye. He watched me when I walk. When I look up, when my eyes shyly meet his, his lips part, and a lucid smile shines though. He smiles so rarely. It’s a shame, he’s smile is beautiful. That’s always when we say goodbye. There is never a kiss. Never a hug. No words are ever exchanged. It is stone.
It’s amazing how time passes when a person thinks, things rush by and then there is no memory. It hardly even realize I’m in the cemetery half the time, like I am now. Every time I step through the gate my heart sinks . The town cemetery is old. Many of the stones decrepit, chipped, and worn away. The newest grave is rarely visited by few people other than Mrs. Johnson. Leaves cover nearly the entirety of the ground. If you look closely the occasionally patch of emerald green grass shines through. Some of the statues that dot the premiss are hundreds of years old. They’re broken down, cracked, and have suffered great abuse from the wind, rain, and snow.
It’s sad that all of these people have been forgotten. They’re no longer mourned, or in many cases, thought of at all. Their great grand children don’t know they’re here. No flowers are left anymore. No one gives a thought to this place. It is lonely.
I come here to think. I sit under the huge oak tree, and sort through the scattered thoughts that wander my mind. Tonight is different. I am not alone. From the corner of my eye I notice someone. I notice him. He notices me as well, and greets me with a smile. Slowly he stands and walks forward. His lips part, and I expect his smile to shine through, the way it use to. This time it does not. His hands are cold to the touch against my warm cheek as I take in a breath of smokey air. He, for the first time, looks me directly in the eyes. Head on we look at each other. For the first time he leans towards me, inching closer in. I’m always lost in my sleep. One day, I won’t have to wake up.
Slowly I start on my promenade. I take each step forward slowly. There is a crackle beneath my soles. IT’s almost a saddening sound. As if each leaf has it’s own pulse, it’s own veins. It’s alive and uniquely beautiful way, but no one stops to appreciate it. No one slows down to glance.
It’s late, but Mrs. Johnson is out. She sits on her front porch and looks on at the night. It seems like she’s waiting for her son to come home, like she did when I was young. Some nights, she visits him up the curved street at the cemetery.
“Hello, Sweetheart.”
Her voice is so kind, so delicate, it’s unique in the way it warms you, it’s curious. I smile and wave back to her, continuing my walk up the road. The wind is being kicked up into my face, it sings my cheeks and makes me take one step back with each two forward. At that moment the bell sticks twelve. I quicken my pace. I have no idea where he is, where he could be. It waited all day. In the evening I called, there way no answer, only taunting rings. He is always on time, always answers the phone, or at lest has his message machine on. My mind is in a fluster over him. It’s a chasm of thoughts; stressful and panicked. It takes so much work to hold them back. Once I do, it may be only moments until the floodgate breaks. I force myself to stop, force myself to think a positive thought. Hell, I force myself to breath.
There is something about him. Something about his smile, the way he looks at me. Not judging, but pondering. Considering. He could make any person become completely infatuated with him, with his mind, with his thoughts. He rarely grants anyone the privilege of glancing inside of him. Into the organized chaos of his thoughts. I think I am one of those few. He told me he I was his muse. He touches my cheek every night when we say goodbye. He watched me when I walk. When I look up, when my eyes shyly meet his, his lips part, and a lucid smile shines though. He smiles so rarely. It’s a shame, he’s smile is beautiful. That’s always when we say goodbye. There is never a kiss. Never a hug. No words are ever exchanged. It is stone.
It’s amazing how time passes when a person thinks, things rush by and then there is no memory. It hardly even realize I’m in the cemetery half the time, like I am now. Every time I step through the gate my heart sinks . The town cemetery is old. Many of the stones decrepit, chipped, and worn away. The newest grave is rarely visited by few people other than Mrs. Johnson. Leaves cover nearly the entirety of the ground. If you look closely the occasionally patch of emerald green grass shines through. Some of the statues that dot the premiss are hundreds of years old. They’re broken down, cracked, and have suffered great abuse from the wind, rain, and snow.
It’s sad that all of these people have been forgotten. They’re no longer mourned, or in many cases, thought of at all. Their great grand children don’t know they’re here. No flowers are left anymore. No one gives a thought to this place. It is lonely.
I come here to think. I sit under the huge oak tree, and sort through the scattered thoughts that wander my mind. Tonight is different. I am not alone. From the corner of my eye I notice someone. I notice him. He notices me as well, and greets me with a smile. Slowly he stands and walks forward. His lips part, and I expect his smile to shine through, the way it use to. This time it does not. His hands are cold to the touch against my warm cheek as I take in a breath of smokey air. He, for the first time, looks me directly in the eyes. Head on we look at each other. For the first time he leans towards me, inching closer in. I’m always lost in my sleep. One day, I won’t have to wake up.