(no subject)
We wandered around the south bend of town and saw all the bright lights, flickering off like fireflies. We went back home and passed out in a figurative dream on the back porch telling stories of the way things used to be. We drove up north to visit some of the groves and forests we read about in the books, and we went to our favorite tree (which we picked on the spot) and carved our names into things; everything was alright. I looked up at the emerald leaves and then to you, a soft tear sliding down your cheek. The tear brought back old memories, so we drove out west where the ocean is and when I got out of the car, the first thing I felt was a blanket of sand beneath my feet and you know, for a second there, those stories weren't stories anymore and the backporch was accompanied by an illuminated door. I walked out to the water's edge and went to hold your hand, but suddenly I was there by myself. So I stood there and watched the sun set and as the last ray of light drowned in the sea, I turned around and ran as fast as I could and never looked back. I'm heading up north, where it never stops snowing and I can have some time to collect my thoughts in the awkward and stiff January weather. A grey sky above my head and another blanket, but this time it was cold. Another four years and we'll be back here on our own. Maybe I'll head out to the bridge we used to go when we wanted to think. I thought about a screenplay once and it involved the four seasons and a meaning in life that is somewhat symbolic of the fallacy of the times.
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