Of a Life Lived
Title: Of a Life Lived
Author: Lindsay (nylana)
Beta: Mary (stillxmyxheart)
Rating: G
Genre: Character Study, Angst, Romance, Poetry
Word Count: 420
Characters/Pairings: Sam, April, Sam/April
Summary: A life lived collects things.
A/N: Um, so yeah poetry. Heh. I blame TTU for getting me on this crazy narrative poetry kick, but sometimes it's the best way to tell what I need to tell.
There are no pictures on his desk.
No framed certificates of higher education,
awards,
ornaments,
figurines,
or other personal touches adorning the spaces
between work and furniture and man.
There are only
these things.
In a drawer there is a set of glasses.
Sitting in a row with a decanter of 15 year scotch,
two,
short,
crystal,
left to him by a very dear friend
brought out during moments of contemplation or comfort.
Moments when he could really use
the favor of her ear.
On the shelves there are books.
Numerous, and filling every available stretch of wood,
heavy,
thick,
old,
a bit too much like him if he thinks about it,
which he tries not to, though often not hard enough.
Especially when she is near,
her vibrant youth a stark contrast to the tired lines of his face.
Next to the phone there is a note.
Written in her familiar flowing loops and curves,
yellow,
square,
small,
one corner curling defiantly up,
as stubborn as both of them.
He remembers the words, their intentions and tone,
and smiles.
In the middle of the room there are boxes.
Full and half, as she turns with her arms laden,
books,
papers,
folders,
a glass of scotch on the coffee table, two ice cubes,
the bottle destined for her drawer of secrets.
She stops and takes a slow sip, tipping the glass after wards
in silent toast, to whom he does not have to guess.
In the doorway there is a ghost.
Lingering and sad, watching as she moves about the office,
beauty,
grace,
essence,
and her quiet melancholy filling up the space
in the room and his heart.
He should have told her, she should have known,
but hindsight as they say.
There is a book in her left hand.
Fingers tracing over it reverently,
cover,
pages,
title,
the worn leather binding creased from use,
Lord Byron on the spine, kept for herself.
She is a romantic at heart, a bit too much like him
if he thinks about it.
A knot sits in his chest.
Words come unbidden to his mind, he will never
say,
do,
have,
because she is not for him, not the way he wanted,
with him, always and in every way.
He turns on a sigh, hiding his face though there is no need,
nothing to be seen.
These are what remain.
Collected in a life lived,
things,
people,
regrets,
to be sorted and packed, but never forgotten,
felt to the last gasping breath.
The light warms his face again, comforting and welcome,
and he lets them go.
Author: Lindsay (nylana)
Beta: Mary (stillxmyxheart)
Rating: G
Genre: Character Study, Angst, Romance, Poetry
Word Count: 420
Characters/Pairings: Sam, April, Sam/April
Summary: A life lived collects things.
A/N: Um, so yeah poetry. Heh. I blame TTU for getting me on this crazy narrative poetry kick, but sometimes it's the best way to tell what I need to tell.
There are no pictures on his desk.
No framed certificates of higher education,
awards,
ornaments,
figurines,
or other personal touches adorning the spaces
between work and furniture and man.
There are only
these things.
In a drawer there is a set of glasses.
Sitting in a row with a decanter of 15 year scotch,
two,
short,
crystal,
left to him by a very dear friend
brought out during moments of contemplation or comfort.
Moments when he could really use
the favor of her ear.
On the shelves there are books.
Numerous, and filling every available stretch of wood,
heavy,
thick,
old,
a bit too much like him if he thinks about it,
which he tries not to, though often not hard enough.
Especially when she is near,
her vibrant youth a stark contrast to the tired lines of his face.
Next to the phone there is a note.
Written in her familiar flowing loops and curves,
yellow,
square,
small,
one corner curling defiantly up,
as stubborn as both of them.
He remembers the words, their intentions and tone,
and smiles.
In the middle of the room there are boxes.
Full and half, as she turns with her arms laden,
books,
papers,
folders,
a glass of scotch on the coffee table, two ice cubes,
the bottle destined for her drawer of secrets.
She stops and takes a slow sip, tipping the glass after wards
in silent toast, to whom he does not have to guess.
In the doorway there is a ghost.
Lingering and sad, watching as she moves about the office,
beauty,
grace,
essence,
and her quiet melancholy filling up the space
in the room and his heart.
He should have told her, she should have known,
but hindsight as they say.
There is a book in her left hand.
Fingers tracing over it reverently,
cover,
pages,
title,
the worn leather binding creased from use,
Lord Byron on the spine, kept for herself.
She is a romantic at heart, a bit too much like him
if he thinks about it.
A knot sits in his chest.
Words come unbidden to his mind, he will never
say,
do,
have,
because she is not for him, not the way he wanted,
with him, always and in every way.
He turns on a sigh, hiding his face though there is no need,
nothing to be seen.
These are what remain.
Collected in a life lived,
things,
people,
regrets,
to be sorted and packed, but never forgotten,
felt to the last gasping breath.
The light warms his face again, comforting and welcome,
and he lets them go.