This is one of those days. One of those days where it feels like I'm about to burst out of my skin, bursting like an overripe tomato. My feet itch with the need to move. I just want to move, to go, to leave. To see something new, something different.
I hate small towns with their Chinese Whispering, their hanging over the back fence gossip mongering. I hate how they figure if your life just isn't interesting enough they'll manufacture you a new one like hatters creating their mad hats.
What makes it worse, and yes it can get worse, are the golden memories in your head of somewhere else, someone else. The flash of a crooked smile, the ghost of the feelings of rough skin against a smooth back, the imprint of grey broken down stone tumbled against a darker grey sky. Even now I can close my eyes and feel the soft mist of rain pattering against my face, clinging delicately to my hair. I long to be there, to see him. I want to do as I promised and stand on top of Micklegate Bar and shout that I love him. I want the memories searing behind my eyelids to be reality to my open eyes instead. I want my senses filled with home again.
His words, so round and soft, bounce and sway around my head and I long for him to feed them to me again, lips to lips. Memories are sometimes as the cheapest greasiest takeout trash, yet when they are all you have they are sometimes as Manna from Heaven.
I'm choked now with my soul clawing to be free, scratching up the sides of my throat to get out, to go, to fly there, to meld with his again.
There are no words to free this. No words to make it ok, to make it right, to make it beautiful again.
Yet he's not gone. He's there as a shadow that can be made solid again, with time.
________________________________
Now, writing this, memories are everywhere. I run my fingers through them sifting time over and over
I hate small towns with their Chinese Whispering, their hanging over the back fence gossip mongering. I hate how they figure if your life just isn't interesting enough they'll manufacture you a new one like hatters creating their mad hats.
What makes it worse, and yes it can get worse, are the golden memories in your head of somewhere else, someone else. The flash of a crooked smile, the ghost of the feelings of rough skin against a smooth back, the imprint of grey broken down stone tumbled against a darker grey sky. Even now I can close my eyes and feel the soft mist of rain pattering against my face, clinging delicately to my hair. I long to be there, to see him. I want to do as I promised and stand on top of Micklegate Bar and shout that I love him. I want the memories searing behind my eyelids to be reality to my open eyes instead. I want my senses filled with home again.
His words, so round and soft, bounce and sway around my head and I long for him to feed them to me again, lips to lips. Memories are sometimes as the cheapest greasiest takeout trash, yet when they are all you have they are sometimes as Manna from Heaven.
I'm choked now with my soul clawing to be free, scratching up the sides of my throat to get out, to go, to fly there, to meld with his again.
There are no words to free this. No words to make it ok, to make it right, to make it beautiful again.
Yet he's not gone. He's there as a shadow that can be made solid again, with time.
________________________________
Now, writing this, memories are everywhere. I run my fingers through them sifting time over and over
