Twirl

I reached out my right index finger and gently hooked one of the strands of hair that's always out of place. It's greying, which sounds like it should be sad, but it's anything but. It's a lovely color, it reminds me of smudged ink, the kind that's on the corners of book pages, pages that have been turned a hundred times. It's familiar in a way. 

The soft lock of hair has a slight curl at the end and that's where I start twisting it around my finger. Curling it up, letting it fall. Repeat. I love this piece of hair. It's real, untamed. 

Black eyes. Who knew black eyes could be so jarring? They're like velvet or outer space or a cozy room at night. Somehow they're brighter and sparkle more than blue or green or brown. They're soft, welcoming. 

But it all became a memory. How did it come to this? Why? Was it the wildflowers or the daydreaming? Is this a punishment, karma? I never meant for any trouble, any pain. I was only lost my whole life, searching. 

I didn't know who I was, what I am. I had thoughts of maybe, thoughts that were confirmed when I broke the fever and woke up to you. 

There is always an escape, but I don't want one. I want the moon, the chandeliers, the silks, the talks, the laughs, the things that have yet to be. I don't want one moment on a beach, I want thousands, millions! I want to make memories, not visit old ones in my head. 

I'll fix it. Somehow, this will all get sorted out. We'll have a day, every day. With new names, cool ones. 

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