Plans and promises

The white and purple flowers shiver in the breeze, just out of reach.  I wish I could tell you what they are, what they're called, but I've never seen them before today.  I suppose that's not much of a regret to have, not when compared to the laundry list that's been rolling through my mind for the last hour, but in a way this one stings more than the others.  I'm not one to cry in public, and I suppose this counts, so I try to keep it to myself.  It's a good way to go crazy, always acting like somebody's watching, and I always figured in the end it would be for the best to stay well-behaved, and yet here I am.  So much for that.

I try to work my way closer to the flowers, but my legs aren't cooperating and I couldn't drag myself along with one arm anyways, even if I wasn't spilling out everywhere.  The shivers are weaker now, fewer and farther between, too.  Cold comfort, I guess, but I'll take it.  I'm a little surprised I'm not colder, what with the dew and the dark and that tugging breeze, but again, I'll take it.  At least it's quiet, peaceful.

I think about her and how she'd hate me if she heard this, how she'd tell everyone who'd listen, and I think I'm glad at this point she won't hear a thing about it.  There's no one left to breathe a word of this, this absolute disaster, to her, to cause that crooked smile to drop, slow, to introduce doubt and fear to her eyes and denial to her heart and lips.  It's better this way and I suppose, somewhere I chose and choose to avert my gaze from, I always knew it would be like this, and I think in some way I welcome it.

My breathing is slow and shallow and the blood is thick and sticky on my hand.  I'd say I've given up on anyone coming along and finding me, but I honestly never entertained the possibility.  Besides, that's a great way to ruin a moment, a sunrise like this, some idiot yammering on, just spewing noise and confusion and stupidity, and I'd like to enjoy this morning, to the best of my ability, and preserve a bit of quiet dignity, if at all possible.  I wish I could say that was the reason I've been so quiet, suffering in silence and all, but there are practicalities at play that have a way of relieving me of my choice in the matter.  I guess I'm just glad I can still appreciate what poetry there's left for me at this point.

I'm watching the sunrise that should be breaking over the horizon, watching the sky that should be easing itself towards day, shafts of sunlight burning off the mist, bringing warmth and light into the world once more, but instead it's getting dimmer and I still can't quite reach those flowers, turning to face the dawn.



9 October 2012