She considered the book, it’s dust jacket slightly ripped and cracked like the skin of some ancient beast. She considered it as one considers the distance between two rocks and whether they can leap over the rapids that swirl about the ankles or whether it is too far, and the threat of being pulled away and under too great. She had read it before, twice in a dozen years, and each time it had carved out of the emptiness some new need in her. It had made a bonfire of her world, and forced her to leap the dying ashes. Yet for all of that, she loved it. She loved it as the mayfly loves the setting sun, and like that brave creature she knew that the end is even more beautiful than the beginning, the last pages truer than the first. She ran a finger down it’s spine, the caress of a lover, lingering for a moment on the very edge, and like all lovers she parted with a whisper;
“Not just yet. Soon, but not yet.”
August 9, 2011 25 Comments
Everything tastes of violets today, of memories and the too long shadows that fall when one approaches silence. I’ve been walking backwards, hopscotch, over the cracks in the pavement (which open, welcoming me, it is cooler underground) running out of ink, as always, and waiting for the mail which does not come, like the rain.
It has been two hundred and forty eight days and three hours, february is the kind month, a little less to count.
February 25, 2011 36 Comments
I am a thread too slender, To suspend all this reality.
Phillip Pulfrey
February 18, 2011 29 Comments