No, this isn't about you. Honest.
Winter comes in springtime - but that can't be helped. Dreams are shattered by untacted words that were not meant, it seems, to cause such pain. That can't be helped either. Thoughts coursing through the mind, spin together by ill-thought things from mouths not so hell bent on making misery as breeding knowledge, yet failing. But it can't exactly be helped.
Hatred of the thing runs deeper than the marks it makes, leaving shows on the skin of a fear that must live somewhere too deep down to access anymore. No, she tries to expalin - it can't be helped.
Flickers of hope, dying against gray light in a gray room with gray eyes that don't shine. Shattered glass on the floor with a cupboard full of good things to eat - and blood all mixed in with the snacks, ruining the world of pleasure it could have made. Bits and pieces of a life, scattered like lost earrings on dingy carpet where nothing can be seen.
Would you recognize her still, still if she came to you with her eyes bleeding and her heart torn from the cavity where everyone once guessed it was beating? Would you acknowledge her if she told you everything - all of those fears and dreams that stopped her from being? Would you even hear the quaver of sound, the slight change in the temperature of an already cold room - know that she was there, know that she was dying, know that you were the one she'd looked at to save her?
Would you know if she thanked you or kissed your feet for giving her those dreams?
Would it matter that she was different - not like the other ones you knew, not prancing around in ribbons or dancing half-drunk in the other room. Would you know? Would you notice? Would you care if you did?
...Well, it doesn't matter because the girl who you've seen, the girl with gray eyes in a gray sweatshirt dancing to the gray music is all gone. She died last night, whilst reading something someone wrote - not really to her or about her...but it still made all the difference. And she sat there, just grinning, laughing at how foolish she'd let it make her feel before - thinking of the drinks and the music and the smell of the place where she will always remember you. It made her feel so childish - but it made her feel better, too.
So last night - yeah, she remembered you. But don't take it too seriously, not that it'd get mistaken for that anyway. Because you shouldn't be wondering about her - she died last night, in a pool of her own laughter. In a high school whirl of girlish glee - she disappeared from here, from this place, from me.
She might return in days to come when silly little things like baseball caps and living room tables and bars and clubs come back and remind her of you. She might even still haunt the places where you say you might have been...but not so that she becomes evident. Because she's learned; learned alot about people who are lessons, and times, and people who are and aren't the sorts of friends that matter in the end. You were one of those lessons - and she owes it to you to remember, to think of the times and the smells and the way the flowers hit the pavement in the city when she remembered you and made the memory all that much sweeter - but really, to her you were the lesson, the time, the ghost in a past that won't come again - but will sweeten other things in other times, if allowed.
You were the only one that stayed. You were the second of them that came. The first was many years ago - when she was young and silly and didn't know much about life at all. But you- you were the first, you were second - the one who made a difference when a difference mattered. She will thank you, someday in her sleep when she remembers you. But until then, she is dead - make no attempts to stir her...please.
Thank you.
-RK
Hatred of the thing runs deeper than the marks it makes, leaving shows on the skin of a fear that must live somewhere too deep down to access anymore. No, she tries to expalin - it can't be helped.
Flickers of hope, dying against gray light in a gray room with gray eyes that don't shine. Shattered glass on the floor with a cupboard full of good things to eat - and blood all mixed in with the snacks, ruining the world of pleasure it could have made. Bits and pieces of a life, scattered like lost earrings on dingy carpet where nothing can be seen.
Would you recognize her still, still if she came to you with her eyes bleeding and her heart torn from the cavity where everyone once guessed it was beating? Would you acknowledge her if she told you everything - all of those fears and dreams that stopped her from being? Would you even hear the quaver of sound, the slight change in the temperature of an already cold room - know that she was there, know that she was dying, know that you were the one she'd looked at to save her?
Would you know if she thanked you or kissed your feet for giving her those dreams?
Would it matter that she was different - not like the other ones you knew, not prancing around in ribbons or dancing half-drunk in the other room. Would you know? Would you notice? Would you care if you did?
...Well, it doesn't matter because the girl who you've seen, the girl with gray eyes in a gray sweatshirt dancing to the gray music is all gone. She died last night, whilst reading something someone wrote - not really to her or about her...but it still made all the difference. And she sat there, just grinning, laughing at how foolish she'd let it make her feel before - thinking of the drinks and the music and the smell of the place where she will always remember you. It made her feel so childish - but it made her feel better, too.
So last night - yeah, she remembered you. But don't take it too seriously, not that it'd get mistaken for that anyway. Because you shouldn't be wondering about her - she died last night, in a pool of her own laughter. In a high school whirl of girlish glee - she disappeared from here, from this place, from me.
She might return in days to come when silly little things like baseball caps and living room tables and bars and clubs come back and remind her of you. She might even still haunt the places where you say you might have been...but not so that she becomes evident. Because she's learned; learned alot about people who are lessons, and times, and people who are and aren't the sorts of friends that matter in the end. You were one of those lessons - and she owes it to you to remember, to think of the times and the smells and the way the flowers hit the pavement in the city when she remembered you and made the memory all that much sweeter - but really, to her you were the lesson, the time, the ghost in a past that won't come again - but will sweeten other things in other times, if allowed.
You were the only one that stayed. You were the second of them that came. The first was many years ago - when she was young and silly and didn't know much about life at all. But you- you were the first, you were second - the one who made a difference when a difference mattered. She will thank you, someday in her sleep when she remembers you. But until then, she is dead - make no attempts to stir her...please.
Thank you.
-RK
1 Thought(s):
You never cease to amaze me at the amount you can write on a daily basis.
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