We travel these paths, burdened with purpose and prose, in hopes that we’ll not long travel alone.
In your eyes I find a spirit, a soul, a beacon that flashes through the darkness of my night.
A thousand words I know but not one that can express the way my soul reaches for yours.
Are our arms enough, will we be able to reach, when our spirits entangle across this space?
In my bones I ache, every inch of my being screams to stay, rattling my steps as I back away.
Because we’re just people, different, incomplete and the sum of our moments is lost on me.
Silence sounds like … Your spirit spinning Out of control to the DJ. Your breath slowing In puffs of hazy cigarette smoke. Your heart pounding Under the soft weight of my hand. Your smile against My hair under the cold moon. The fading drops Of my rocks failing to skip. Your fingers drawing Shivering lines down my back. Silence sounds like … All those things I feel in my soul When your eyes lock with mine And we fall away from time. 143
Originally published here in Dec. 2017. The prompt at the time was silence. Today’s RDP prompt is intimate
I couldn’t let love day go by without something!
I’m in the final weeks of my grad program. Unfortunately that’s meant I haven’t been on here. But if anyone’s interested in my research on investment in clean energy let me know and I may post the presentation here for all to see!
There’s a certain beauty to life alone. A certain finesse to the fine art of dying in no ones arms but your own. I’ve lost count of the seconds slowly rolling into days. Those things were never ours anyway. It’s funny … The noises your mind will come up with to keep time floating in oceans with little salt. At first you know it’s just the children in your head playing. Then you begin to doubt as shadows creep out. Humans can die from any number of ailments … A common cold to a lightening strike, Historic rejection or morbid curiosity, It’s what makes us the same. At least that’s what they say. Maybe I relied too much on silence in those days.
My shadows frolic through the roaring break. They toss their hands to the wind And dance the steps to heaven. I don’t imagine they’ll let me live.
Word Count: 147
A write for What Pegman Saw. This weeks location is St. Helena island. For more information and rules visit the link. To read more stories click the blue froggy below.
Art of Dying is also a song by George Harrison, not really much in common with this piece but still nice to listen to.
We live, we learn, we grow.
It’s amazing the evolution when color photos just taken drain and redden
And clouds just forming begin storming.
Haze permanently obscures the laughing moon
Blocking our memories of cloudless bug lit nights.
Shadows shift in undertones, subtly coloring the world in deepening blues.
I reached after you but you were too far gone.
Strides across the parking lot now shortened
And dagger edged words now blunted.
I stand on the shore of what could have been
Straining to pick the memories from those which tendrils of mist stole away.
We live, we learn, we grow.
We realize we’re wrong
But names appear on stones and fresh dirt churns easy,
When time has no regard for little human lives.
Maybe one day you walk out of the office heading for nowhere and end up here. Eye to eye with everything that’s left of Bessie the desert cow you never knew you cared about.
You waltzed out of the gas station, one brain cell on reality and the rest playfully baiting eternity, when three pairs of hands and a graying beard shove you into a rumbling cargo van.
Who knows really how long your face will remain plastered over crumbling brick walls and flashed ever sparingly across the bottom of nightly news screens.
Like Bessie it could already be long gone. A skeleton in some rattled detectives closet, only to be unearthed when ground is broken for that new shopping mall in ten years time.
For now you’re flung four feet deep with dirt and desert bugs collecting in the folds of your skirt. Broken blades of grass and decades old Bud Light cans settle into their rightful place nestled among your bruised arms.
Caressing your hair, chopped and dyed, the slow harness of time takes hold.
And you have no choice but to sit with Bessie, the eyes which see it all, and wait.
At least that’s what Edna thought she remembered him saying now. Sixty years on she supposed exact verbiage no longer really mattered.
The plane rattled down the runway. Edna watched the early morning horizon slip by. These moments always reminded her of her mother’s silk scarf floating away on the wind. The way it twisted, trying to escape the inevitable hand of fate it was dealt, and the way her mother ran after it, crimson nails just barely missing the straggling threads.
Had she known then how some people were capable of so much more … had she understood the intricacies of human emotions, fits of rage and the abilities of people to do things outside the realm of “normal” … Like kill others or freeze moments …
Edna settled back into her seat. It took so much out of her now, she figured she only had a few more times in her.
A few more things to see, to record.
A few more moments to live, to love.
Instinctively she reached into the old leather messenger bag, relishing in the old smell of cigars and aftershave, and patted the worn inner pocket. Her notebook, a verifiable tome of time, was secure inside.
I know this doesn’t really make sense in it’s brief form but it was something that struck me and I wanted to share here.
I took a dip
In your eyes
Of crystalline hues
Browns and blues
Tickling the edges
Of all gods knew
I sank into silken grips
Tied by the seductive
Curves of your lips
As your tongue
Played along the lines
Careful to bide its time