Notes: Yes, it's a personal short story written by me, of me. It
-does- speak of love, but its not based on some 'tragic' breakup. It's
more of a friendship and a life I was forced out of and thrown in to a
new one. One particular place in this new life reminds me of the old
one I wish I could have again. Though I know that standing there every
night that I can in the same manner and wishing wont change it and
send me back, I wont stop, I'll always go. And were I to really
return, I know that life would be left far behind. It's a lose/lose
situation.
Snow. I could always look forward to it. The chill scraped at my
throat and froze my breath in to silver clouds that drifted lazily to
gray, bloated clouds, shimmering before dissolving. The frost lining
my footsteps glistened, something I could leave behind for a short
while, a memory, one of the many I knew not to last. But still. it
would have been there, left by me.
Life like snow, knowing foot prints would disappear. Will they
remember me then, when I'm buried and my blood settles.? Flesh cold
and joints stiff? Will they only remember if I die standing here,
beneath the dying glow of a pale streetlight in the cold, the only
warmth to be the cigarette I had forgotten, hanging from my slack lips
until now?
My thoughts churned and I blinked around the cutting haze of
cigarette smoke, suppressing a grimace from the cheap lipstick that
tasted like wax. It was like we were born, placed here like pieces of
a chess game to play, age and die. Snow fell from those silvery gray
skies to melt. The cold came to kill the trees and rob them of their
leaves, leaving them naked and hunched in the wind.
Typically, the cold could have been described to cut like a
knife, clichéd, and I liked to focus on the darker things in life,
alone with no one but the voices I had created. And those voices. they
had evolved with new voices, different opinions, a slow comfort of
hostile suggestions that murmured in a quiet buzz between my ears.
Try to think like a poet, but I figure this would mean so much
more, this could be told and formed, shaped and molded in to some of
pure, sweet elegance is only you could hear the low droll of my voice,
even as I narrate whilst I type. But we cannot that. it doesn't
matter.
I was not looking for warmth, still feeling the cold yet pushing
away for the cold climates did not concern me, dragging on the
remainder of a cigarette, I shivered. That would kill me one day,
ignoring the cold.
Standing beneath the same dying street lamp in front of the
familiar abandoned apartment building with its broken and jagged
windows all over again. Bits of old newspaper fluttered across
unevenly paved cobblestone street, tumbling end over end, past the
graveyard and its shaggy carpet of tattered patches of grass and black
dirt, catching on my boot and the knee high rusting gate that used to
be black but now a peeling gray.
It was a dirty habit, wait in the for nothing because that old
life had left so long ago, drawing on the cigarettes that I knew would
eventually kill me if the cold didn't, thoughts shifting like gathered
dust -though they were fairly more complex than that- to the scars you
left me that rendered me emotionally helpless, a child all over again
and I still didn't want anyone to hold my hand.
Times up. By now we would have argued and gone our separate
ways, so I'll imagine. Back home and still alone.
Wondering how many pills I had left: Go home and sit in the
dark, curled and hunched in to myself, playing the same records over
and over again, a dark lovesick ritual that couldn't be broken because
I liked feeling the pain, and I liked hating it. I liked being the
complicated, overly dramatic, self-placed loner that I felt I should
be after it all.
Door shut tight. Curtains drawn. 11 pm. Disconnect the phone,
stare at the pain-relievers, though after the first time I'm afraid of
them and they sit on the shelf, reminding me. Reminding me. Alcohol,
whatever alcohol is close. I need it. Well, no.
Not wanting to move from the dark hideaway, not wanting to be
seen in such a pitiful state -I'll admit- of shameful desires.
It's the same routine every night, an addiction, almost as great
as the one I had for you. In the end, one of them will kill me. The
addiction to the scars you left -I just couldn't let go of you yet ,
the cold, or the drug. It was just like the snow. To meet you, to love
you and lose, craving for you, drying for you.
Just like snow, just like snow.
-does- speak of love, but its not based on some 'tragic' breakup. It's
more of a friendship and a life I was forced out of and thrown in to a
new one. One particular place in this new life reminds me of the old
one I wish I could have again. Though I know that standing there every
night that I can in the same manner and wishing wont change it and
send me back, I wont stop, I'll always go. And were I to really
return, I know that life would be left far behind. It's a lose/lose
situation.
Snow. I could always look forward to it. The chill scraped at my
throat and froze my breath in to silver clouds that drifted lazily to
gray, bloated clouds, shimmering before dissolving. The frost lining
my footsteps glistened, something I could leave behind for a short
while, a memory, one of the many I knew not to last. But still. it
would have been there, left by me.
Life like snow, knowing foot prints would disappear. Will they
remember me then, when I'm buried and my blood settles.? Flesh cold
and joints stiff? Will they only remember if I die standing here,
beneath the dying glow of a pale streetlight in the cold, the only
warmth to be the cigarette I had forgotten, hanging from my slack lips
until now?
My thoughts churned and I blinked around the cutting haze of
cigarette smoke, suppressing a grimace from the cheap lipstick that
tasted like wax. It was like we were born, placed here like pieces of
a chess game to play, age and die. Snow fell from those silvery gray
skies to melt. The cold came to kill the trees and rob them of their
leaves, leaving them naked and hunched in the wind.
Typically, the cold could have been described to cut like a
knife, clichéd, and I liked to focus on the darker things in life,
alone with no one but the voices I had created. And those voices. they
had evolved with new voices, different opinions, a slow comfort of
hostile suggestions that murmured in a quiet buzz between my ears.
Try to think like a poet, but I figure this would mean so much
more, this could be told and formed, shaped and molded in to some of
pure, sweet elegance is only you could hear the low droll of my voice,
even as I narrate whilst I type. But we cannot that. it doesn't
matter.
I was not looking for warmth, still feeling the cold yet pushing
away for the cold climates did not concern me, dragging on the
remainder of a cigarette, I shivered. That would kill me one day,
ignoring the cold.
Standing beneath the same dying street lamp in front of the
familiar abandoned apartment building with its broken and jagged
windows all over again. Bits of old newspaper fluttered across
unevenly paved cobblestone street, tumbling end over end, past the
graveyard and its shaggy carpet of tattered patches of grass and black
dirt, catching on my boot and the knee high rusting gate that used to
be black but now a peeling gray.
It was a dirty habit, wait in the for nothing because that old
life had left so long ago, drawing on the cigarettes that I knew would
eventually kill me if the cold didn't, thoughts shifting like gathered
dust -though they were fairly more complex than that- to the scars you
left me that rendered me emotionally helpless, a child all over again
and I still didn't want anyone to hold my hand.
Times up. By now we would have argued and gone our separate
ways, so I'll imagine. Back home and still alone.
Wondering how many pills I had left: Go home and sit in the
dark, curled and hunched in to myself, playing the same records over
and over again, a dark lovesick ritual that couldn't be broken because
I liked feeling the pain, and I liked hating it. I liked being the
complicated, overly dramatic, self-placed loner that I felt I should
be after it all.
Door shut tight. Curtains drawn. 11 pm. Disconnect the phone,
stare at the pain-relievers, though after the first time I'm afraid of
them and they sit on the shelf, reminding me. Reminding me. Alcohol,
whatever alcohol is close. I need it. Well, no.
Not wanting to move from the dark hideaway, not wanting to be
seen in such a pitiful state -I'll admit- of shameful desires.
It's the same routine every night, an addiction, almost as great
as the one I had for you. In the end, one of them will kill me. The
addiction to the scars you left -I just couldn't let go of you yet ,
the cold, or the drug. It was just like the snow. To meet you, to love
you and lose, craving for you, drying for you.
Just like snow, just like snow.