Author: pneumothorax PM
Christmas beauty? last year. [Beauty itching under my skin, a feeling on the paving and god, the lights.] Distractions are usually unappealing when learning to drive.Rated: Fiction K+ - English - Words: 366 - Reviews: 2 - Published: 06-11-05 - id: 1937113
|A+ A- Full 3/4 1/2 Expand Tighten|
Title: blue lights.
Summary: beauty itching under my skin, a feeling on the paving and god, the lights.
Tune: John Mayer - daughters. (or that's what I wrote it to anyway; repeatrepeatrepeat)
Inside my skin, itching and wonderful, I parade the shops and bubble with nothing but the year. Everyone's full of it, and everyone smiles and I all-round smile my way down the road, and it doesn't matter if I'm alone because you never are now. I buy more than I'll give in 365 and the bags make me happy. I love buying, and I love faces when they're like they'll be. My feet are light, and when they hit the ground it feels different and special and wonderful and I want to bottle this; I'd make a million, darling.
And the bags in my hands swing and my feet touch a second on the ground. Everything looks damn different. It's shutting time and the night's down, lights everywhere in sky blue and green and red, but the blue's so beautiful. Stop now, and see this. It's not worth a thing to miss. I've always adored the darkness and business though there's nothing but a train to catch, and the clichés are wonderful and exploited and the kids are happy but that doesn't matter. It's the feeling, edible in my head, but that's all it is. I don't care. I love it.
When I get the train home, I stare at them slipping away, the night black with shopping city lights, blue lights blinking beautiful like I overuse but that's all it is, and I have to rip my eyes away when he wants my ticket. Rip; I mean it. Tear with a second of lingering eyes on the glass. I feel so sad with hope, shapes trickling out of my eyeline. There's no word. It's adrenaline on crack but I'm not excited. I'm joyous? Possibly, though it's exploited worse than the clichés. Eve, a possibility of everything skin sick amazing, but the day itself'll be nothing more. My christmas.