um, hello.
it's feb. 29 and that happens every four years so i had to post something, if only to get the date thingy. i don't know how i feel about this though. i kinda like it but . . . well, you'll see. enjoy?
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insomnia
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She stays up till three in the morning to read a collection of short stories that brings her no satisfaction. They mostly speak of love and bravery and ships that never sink. She doesn't understand them. Maybe this is the wrong book for her.
Her mind, in its sleepy, restless state, drifts absently, like passing clouds of thoughts that aren't hers. She's lying on silky, silver linen and watching the world shift without her lonely self. It's a dream, but she's awake. She's awake, but there's no dream. The stars prance across the midnight sky.
She flips to the next page, wondering what the next leaf has to offer. The words are seen, but unread. Like how she used to watch but not see the wind drift through leaves and grass and salmon-coloured hair on a summer day. She doesn't know why but she wants to cry – no, not quite – nothing quite that strong; it's a dull ache in her chest that'll go away. Idly, she folds the corner of her page for future reference. She's used to it.
She has trouble deciding if she should continue reading sappy stories that make her sad or just be done with it – that is, trying to sort things into their respective jar – and go to sleep.
But her sheets are cold from her shifting around, what little warmth that she had to begin with seeping and slipping away like all things do – sand through fingers, empires through time.
At last, she kills the lights and closes her eyes.
In the darkness, behind lidded eyes, she hears the window ease open and feels a warm, familiar presence smelling like embers and crisp leaves pull the sheets back and slip in behind her, holding her, protecting her, completing her flawlessly. His soft hair tickles her as he nuzzles her like she is his pillow.
"Gods, Luce, you're freezing worse than Snowcone. I don't think even he likes this temperature."
I miss you.
"What would you do without me, Luce, as your personal heater? Guess I'll always have to come by, huh?"
I miss you.
She could feel the heat of his body so nice against hers, seep into her bones. The way his arms and legs so intimately wrapped around her, warm her up in more ways than one. She is tucked safe under his chin. The beating of his heart is so steady, so real and she matches her breathing with his slow, deep ones that indicate he's asleep already. She's in a cocoon. She's sitting beside the hearth. She's at a harbour with him and he's twirling her body so all she sees is his beautiful eyes and the blue sky. He was her ship that never sunk.
The warmth leaves. A chill is all that's left behind.
I miss you. I miss you. I miss you. Where are you.
Except ships do sink (the stories lie) and she's living in a dream (it helps her go to sleep at night) and now she locks the window (because why bother if he didn't come around anymore).
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A small part of her – a lost girl – still believes he's lost at sea – that his ship never sank – but even that flickering fire tastes like ash now.
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i'm sorry. i said i'd never write sad stories like this but i did. maybe if people are interested, i'll write a happier sequel
- origami fish