Fiction
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It is an even field, an evened space between them, or that is what’s assumed. There’s a summer’s sunlight overhead, and a thousand unseen droplets of sweat from a hundred different bodies. All of them, animals. A choice is highlighted. One that acts out in doing what can be done to close this gap. Whispers
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Whatever I’ve seen happen to her, stays with her, while I’ve gone to shed tears in private. If I’m to blame, she won’t admit it, and won’t lash out. It isn’t necessary. I recognize it, by myself. For I see what I’ve caused, because I’ve broken down her walls. Four of them. They closed her
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When I walked in, he was asleep. His eyes closed, though his chest did not rise. I knew. In that moment, I knew. He had nothing left to weep after. No more burden to keep his existence a semi-purposeful one. Nothing more to fight for, because illness had carted it off. Death has given him
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To them both, everything echoes. One voice crawls to the other, but both come back to their giver, receiving remnants. Of what? Of hope. They’ve seen the other side. They’ve transferred more than can be undone. She looks at him, seeing a world covered in the butterflies from her stomach. She released them to him,
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Wild. Almost wicked. He has walked close enough. Up to her, where any closer will be through her. In his arms, it’ll come soon, but he’ll hold a ghost. Someone who wasn’t here a moment ago. All around, heat blends with its accompanying scents. It wraps, pulls, and can’t let go. Lavender for a calmer
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He takes his time leaking his presence into her. Just as she had done, before this time he is taking, the same as he’s taking something away. He stands. She’s sitting. This isn’t submissiveness from her. This is acceptance. A better strand of hair, from her, would turn grey. He favors honesty above nearly all
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A shadow has been extending from a motionless figure. How long has it been going for? How long has she been seated there, counting leaves that descend due to meeting their time? In the corporeal world, it has been a mere minute. But in her mind, her presence in this position, this stagnation, has been
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I Light is Burning Out Sometimes, we feel the pain of those who we’ve claimed to love, of those who suffer with something that’s beyond their control. But there are other times when we feel more of our own pain, desiring more of our own relief. Can we state that selfishness is a part of
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Our world. Gusts had told its tale. Its own whispers, drifting everything everywhere. Seeds once spread. Gardens had grown. Love was birthed from a small fraction of all being felt. When we felt it, we gave our eyes over to it. But nothing had burned, as nothing had lit itself up in the dark. In
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To him, all that has manifested in this aftermath might be said to be all he expected. All that destruction of a form, all because he took a different direction. Had he lied to himself at that second? All he wanted was relief. A different place to put his sanity. To whatever was left of
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Wondering. Always wondering. At what? Only a mystery. It has been kept in a darkness, swelling in all its oceanic curves. Though, there is no symmetry. There is no place a certain divide can be viewed, should that be evidence of a clean divide. We see her, jagged and raw. She looks over her shoulders,
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We’ve chosen this. Having chosen us, continuing to walk over our premature grave like the times when we swim in each other’s skin. Love arranged this, did it not? Or was it something else? Was it mere time? Our confession turned into denial of what wasn’t absolution. Our knees once became soft at the submission
Modern Romanticism 