Wednesday, August 07, 2002
Whistful
The lazy hand trails a single fingernail down her back and she sighs in contentment. How she longs for the days and nights and the boy who will make her life feel better. Oh, but it is just a dream, she knows. It will not happen, now or ever, or so she feels because the tears that trickle down her face in the lost and lonely moments of the bar and the beer keep her in reality. But then she sees him and she feels better but she knows that it will not last, not much does and her psyche closes in on itself. The last one, the one before that, the one before that, the one before that...she counts silently in her head. She is resigned to aloneness if only to protect her hopes from ever seeing the light they so wish to have. Her hand trails, lazy fingers, across fine hair and she sighs again. Oh what path has she taken where it leads to this? Her soul long sold to satan and evil, she struggles with the good people here. When it is her turn to leave she hopes that her world will not come to an end. She doesn't think about that so much now, as the scent in her hair reminds her of the delicate hand, creating a surrealistic distraction, as if by memory alone the hand has come back. She is haunted by demons and ghosts but none will ever touch her memory in the way that a brilliant and shy soul could. She delights in this fact for in secret, if a million years from now she remembers, she will relish the scent and the hand. How frightfully poetic, she muses, that I can think of these things and want them so badly. But she remembers John. How nice, how slimy he was. Forget him, her mind implores. She will right now because she basks in contentness, the hand across her back and the hair across her arm a momentary distraction from her usual insanity.
The lazy hand trails a single fingernail down her back and she sighs in contentment. How she longs for the days and nights and the boy who will make her life feel better. Oh, but it is just a dream, she knows. It will not happen, now or ever, or so she feels because the tears that trickle down her face in the lost and lonely moments of the bar and the beer keep her in reality. But then she sees him and she feels better but she knows that it will not last, not much does and her psyche closes in on itself. The last one, the one before that, the one before that, the one before that...she counts silently in her head. She is resigned to aloneness if only to protect her hopes from ever seeing the light they so wish to have. Her hand trails, lazy fingers, across fine hair and she sighs again. Oh what path has she taken where it leads to this? Her soul long sold to satan and evil, she struggles with the good people here. When it is her turn to leave she hopes that her world will not come to an end. She doesn't think about that so much now, as the scent in her hair reminds her of the delicate hand, creating a surrealistic distraction, as if by memory alone the hand has come back. She is haunted by demons and ghosts but none will ever touch her memory in the way that a brilliant and shy soul could. She delights in this fact for in secret, if a million years from now she remembers, she will relish the scent and the hand. How frightfully poetic, she muses, that I can think of these things and want them so badly. But she remembers John. How nice, how slimy he was. Forget him, her mind implores. She will right now because she basks in contentness, the hand across her back and the hair across her arm a momentary distraction from her usual insanity.
# posted by Crazy Girl @ 19:39 
