09-18-2018, 11:21 AM
The absences in this room
don’t sleep. Like gods,
they walk through rooms
unnoticed.
- - - -
The evening is alive with sound and shy starlight. Is it nostalgia or twilight that paints the world in shades of amber?
Could it be both?
It's a funny thing, this life. Days melt into seasons into years-- until you look behind you one morning, and you cannot see where your path began. And looking back on that crooked path, there have been so many twists and turns, loops and knots, that it is overwhelming to think how the world could be so immensely different if she had said the things that needed to be said.
Regret fills her, and in response she comes to the meadow.
North is reaching for something, anything familiar. She has memories here, dusty and sun-bleached memories, white as bone. So she ambles into the knee-high grass, into the evening fog and the symphony of crickets and frogs. The colors deepen as the sun sinks farther and farther below the horizon, and the hymn of the night rises in response.
She shivers even in the warm breeze. This place does not feel the way it used to.
The mare closes her eyes and begins to hum a sad song as the moon emerges, and on her mane its light glows ethereal. It suits her, for tonight she feels like a ghost.
- - - - -
N O R T H
don’t sleep. Like gods,
they walk through rooms
unnoticed.
- - - -
The evening is alive with sound and shy starlight. Is it nostalgia or twilight that paints the world in shades of amber?
Could it be both?
It's a funny thing, this life. Days melt into seasons into years-- until you look behind you one morning, and you cannot see where your path began. And looking back on that crooked path, there have been so many twists and turns, loops and knots, that it is overwhelming to think how the world could be so immensely different if she had said the things that needed to be said.
Regret fills her, and in response she comes to the meadow.
North is reaching for something, anything familiar. She has memories here, dusty and sun-bleached memories, white as bone. So she ambles into the knee-high grass, into the evening fog and the symphony of crickets and frogs. The colors deepen as the sun sinks farther and farther below the horizon, and the hymn of the night rises in response.
She shivers even in the warm breeze. This place does not feel the way it used to.
The mare closes her eyes and begins to hum a sad song as the moon emerges, and on her mane its light glows ethereal. It suits her, for tonight she feels like a ghost.
- - - - -
N O R T H