Author: xanthofile PM
any orientation This place has nothing to do with you and me. one-shotRated: Fiction T - English - Words: 728 - Reviews: 5 - Favs: 1 - Published: 09-12-06 - Status: Complete - id: 2245817
|A+ A- Full 3/4 1/2 Expand Tighten|
all who do not know: i've lost most computer use whatsoever. but i do manage to write, and i've secured some basic word functions here and there. i'll see what i can do, but don't expect miracles, people. also: those of you who i read regularly....i'm so backed up in email, it's rediculous. so don't be offended if i haven't reviewed you when i (normally) do.
this piece is more like poetry in prose form. that's basically all i can say. hope you enjoy.
tuesday, september 12, 2006. 6:09 pm.
A breeze is sensed more than it could be felt, but its cousin-brothers weave along with the ground's shadows, a glittering effect upon the grass at my feet. Another cicada becomes angry in an overloud tone, gaining in intensity, going solidly until it abruptly fades to a crunchy whisper, worn out and listening to the answering call from elsewhere. They play vocal tag for a while.
There are cars in the distance, on the highway, on the back streets, on the campus drive some ten or so feet before me. It's a shape-shifting rumble and protest, the eager sound of rubber greeting pavement and enjoying itself immensely.
Birds are overhead, darting shadows of their fleeting presence, chirps from bush to tree to air. Their feathers, broken-shafted and otherwise abused, lie captured in the green blades littering that space at my feet…there's just one feather though, along with a fluffy bit of down skimming the grass with that same playfully 'sensed' breeze from before.
This is where we met, you and I. This is where we always meet.
Where the red earth peeks up in patches of sobriety, disheveled piles announcing the abode of various burrowing insects. It's all green and red and blue and yellow….
This is where we met, you and I.
This place is fixed, unchangeable…unless it wants to. This place changes often.
This place has nothing to do with you and me, nothing to do with the beat up turquoise car that I always sit here and wait for, with its taped up seats to keep the foam in place, and the tinted up windows that gradually lose more of the tinting sheets used to tint them in the first place over five or so years ago.
It has nothing to do with the modest condo we call home, with its seasonal autumn welcome mat staying out all year round, and the dirty blinds on the front windows that never go up unless it's raining. Nothing to do with the damp kitchen sink and the ever-after faint smell of rotting potatoes, or the even fainter smell of chicken once left out for two days in the intense summer heat. Glade® only masks the smell.
This place has nothing to do with you and me.
It has nothing to do with the bedspread made by my great-grandmother the year I was born, the tumbling block design as beautiful and sturdy as it was nearly thirty years ago.
It has nothing to do with the silence of your breath when sleeping, the way your arm always hugs my neck during the night, my face curled into your shirt-covered sternum…only to wake up and find that you've pushed me to the periphery of the mattress, your grip the only thing saving me from falling out of bed completely. Sometimes you let go, and I fall anyway.
This place has nothing to do with me and you, and everything to do with loving you.
I sit here, waiting for a turquoise car that won't come anymore, my book bag between my knees and the sun kissing my exposed skin. I sit here and wait, because this place has everything to do with you.
It reminds me what I lost when you left me.