Author's Note: I'm sorry it's been so long since I updated. I guess I've just been in this bored place. I dunno, I haven't really been writing anything, not even my usual poetry, it's pretty sad. Ah well. I decided to continue doing little drabbles, not long chapters, so here's a little drabble.
Thank you all. Please Review.
October 21, 1976
Dear Lily,
We haven't spoken in a long time, too long, I feel. I know, actually, that it has been too long. I miss you often. Your bitten back smiles when I say something uproariously hilarious (I do that quite often), the way your hips sway when you stalk away from me, and the huff and puff you cry when agitated with me. I miss it all, you know? Damn. Damn, damn, damn. Well.
We haven't spoken and you keep looking at me with your hands pulled behind your back, your left hand gripping your right fingers, your body shaking slightly, and I know these motions. I go through them everyday I see you, hoping, slightly, that if I walk up to you I won't feel the most painful ache crawl over me. I don't know if you know this, but walking away from you that day when I said we could be friends was perhaps the most worst moment of my life. And I wish, somehow, that I could take it back, just so we could argue and fight and be dumb to each other and ignore the fact I know you enjoy it, somewhere. You like hating me. That's sick, and maybe I'm sick for thinking this, but I love that you enjoy it. Call me a masochist, I don't care. But that's how I feel.
It's nighttime. I look out the window, now, watching the moon and the clouds and the shadows, dribbling down the sky's back, like showers of liquid silver, pulsing warmly against the spine of our great Earth. I look, sometimes, because I am weary of astrology; I want to go as far as the stars may take me. I think of you know. I groan.
You and the stars are so inconveniently out of reach.
Love,
James