The heat of midnight was like diving headfirst into a pot of boiling water,
I thought the burns on my skin might be more tolerable if slightly more painful,
At least then I would be feeling something instead of thinking,
I was sick of thinking of him, of Peter's Pond, and of anything that should have only been in my past.
But it wasn't.

It's sketchy because I've never been the long dwelling type,
I pulled on my purple parka and pounded my path to the porch,
As I closed the slider behind me I shuddered,
I'd never liked the noise it made,
The humid air prickling my body wasn't pleasant either.

Despite my loathe of my current state of weakness, I walked, and walked,
I walked up a hill, and onto my old road,
And I found myself in a nest of moonlit black, resting my head against the hoop,
It was mocking me, weird, crazy, stalker,
But this was my home as much as it's, as much as his.

I felt myself flying up above in one of those out of body sensations,
As I watched myself stare blankly into the night,
I knew I hadn't moved on,
I still wanted my past back, I wanted to change it,
If I hadn't fallen here, I'd be able to walk again.

I felt that I'd dove into old water again,
And I was suddenly so cold, shivering on the hot, smooth rock,
And then there was a hand in front of my face,
My eyes traveled upward and I immediately stood, still shaking,
Go, I thought, just go,
So I did,
Without a glance back at his moonlit black hair,
Or his deer in the headlights face.

Originally written: December 2007. This one was creative writing too. Teacher gave us a list and we had to use a certain amount of the things in there, slang, similies, metaphors, a fantasy thinger majig. Clearly I didn't thrive under the pressure back then.