who can blame me for refusing [original work]
Wait, I do that?
who can blame me for refusing
537 words
pg13 for the use of the word "fucking" x1
original
unbetaed
1.
Imagine waking
to a scene of snow so new
not even memories
of other snow
can mar its silken
surface. What other innocence
is quite like this,
and who can blame me
for refusing
to violate such whiteness
with the booted cruelty
of tracks?
- excerpt from Agoraphobia, by Linda Pastan
“No, the thing is,” she begins, pushing her hair back. The wind whips it back into her face, and she huffs, breath foggy. “I don’t trust much, but I have faith.”
“That doesn’t make sense.” He turns away from her to face the wind. He knows his face will turn dangerously red if he stays out too long, but the last time it did she put her hands on both of his cheeks, and that was nice. “You trust someone, you have faith in someone. It’s the same thing.”
“It isn’t,” she counters. Her voice is quiet behind him, and he thinks that maybe the wind is pushing it back. “You trust that someone will come through for you. You trust that God’s gonna take care of you, and everything will be okay. Trust is the belief that something will happen for you.”
“Faith is belief too!” He says this too sharply, too loudly. The wind is carrying his words back to her, a direct path. He can feel her freeze up behind him, but then suddenly a hand is on his arm. He can barely feel the pressure through his thick winter coat, but it’s there.
“Yeah, it is. But it’s not asking for anything like trust is. Faith is believing that something exists, that something is really there, not for you, not for anyone, just existing because that’s what it does.”
He doesn’t look at her (her face is upturned to him, nose red and painful looking, it’s too fucking cold for her here, he knows it is, and he knows that she wants to lean her head on his arm but she’d never admit it. She’s not a stupid romantic sap; she hates it when he kisses her hands). “Do you have faith in me, or do you trust me?”
Maybe it’s because she’s cold, or maybe she’s just given up because she does lean her head on his arm and even slips her bare hand into his gloved one. She turns her face into his coat sleeve so the word “Faith” is lost in fabric and warmth.
He tenses, and she knows it. Suddenly she’s in front of him, not touching him, a completely different existence.
“I have faith that if I close my eyes and count to ten, you’ll still be there, right there, when I open them.” And she closes her eyes.
He stands there, unmoving. The wind is blowing her hair around again, lifting the curly frizz into ridiculous shapes and tangles that will take forever to get rid of. He can see her, warm and healthy-looking inside the bedroom with a cheap plastic comb. Hours. It would take hours.
She’s counting, silently moving her lips into shapes that he can’t read. What number is she on? He doesn’t care.
She opens her eyes, but it doesn’t make a difference on her face.
“See?” Her lips curl up, and it is a smile.
He wraps his arms around her but she’s hugging her arms to her chest. She’s her own wall.
He breathes into her hair, and it’s uncomfortable and strange, but he whispers “Trust me” and there are millions of promises behind it.
And she puts her arms down.
-----
Suggest a title please! And yeah, the poem is completely unrelated. I just liked it, and the scene was in the cold, and somehow that made it okay to throw in there. :D
TELL ME ABOUT IT.
who can blame me for refusing
537 words
pg13 for the use of the word "fucking" x1
original
unbetaed
1.
Imagine waking
to a scene of snow so new
not even memories
of other snow
can mar its silken
surface. What other innocence
is quite like this,
and who can blame me
for refusing
to violate such whiteness
with the booted cruelty
of tracks?
- excerpt from Agoraphobia, by Linda Pastan
“No, the thing is,” she begins, pushing her hair back. The wind whips it back into her face, and she huffs, breath foggy. “I don’t trust much, but I have faith.”
“That doesn’t make sense.” He turns away from her to face the wind. He knows his face will turn dangerously red if he stays out too long, but the last time it did she put her hands on both of his cheeks, and that was nice. “You trust someone, you have faith in someone. It’s the same thing.”
“It isn’t,” she counters. Her voice is quiet behind him, and he thinks that maybe the wind is pushing it back. “You trust that someone will come through for you. You trust that God’s gonna take care of you, and everything will be okay. Trust is the belief that something will happen for you.”
“Faith is belief too!” He says this too sharply, too loudly. The wind is carrying his words back to her, a direct path. He can feel her freeze up behind him, but then suddenly a hand is on his arm. He can barely feel the pressure through his thick winter coat, but it’s there.
“Yeah, it is. But it’s not asking for anything like trust is. Faith is believing that something exists, that something is really there, not for you, not for anyone, just existing because that’s what it does.”
He doesn’t look at her (her face is upturned to him, nose red and painful looking, it’s too fucking cold for her here, he knows it is, and he knows that she wants to lean her head on his arm but she’d never admit it. She’s not a stupid romantic sap; she hates it when he kisses her hands). “Do you have faith in me, or do you trust me?”
Maybe it’s because she’s cold, or maybe she’s just given up because she does lean her head on his arm and even slips her bare hand into his gloved one. She turns her face into his coat sleeve so the word “Faith” is lost in fabric and warmth.
He tenses, and she knows it. Suddenly she’s in front of him, not touching him, a completely different existence.
“I have faith that if I close my eyes and count to ten, you’ll still be there, right there, when I open them.” And she closes her eyes.
He stands there, unmoving. The wind is blowing her hair around again, lifting the curly frizz into ridiculous shapes and tangles that will take forever to get rid of. He can see her, warm and healthy-looking inside the bedroom with a cheap plastic comb. Hours. It would take hours.
She’s counting, silently moving her lips into shapes that he can’t read. What number is she on? He doesn’t care.
She opens her eyes, but it doesn’t make a difference on her face.
“See?” Her lips curl up, and it is a smile.
He wraps his arms around her but she’s hugging her arms to her chest. She’s her own wall.
He breathes into her hair, and it’s uncomfortable and strange, but he whispers “Trust me” and there are millions of promises behind it.
And she puts her arms down.
-----
Suggest a title please! And yeah, the poem is completely unrelated. I just liked it, and the scene was in the cold, and somehow that made it okay to throw in there. :D
TELL ME ABOUT IT.