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Literature Text
[It's snowing tonight.]
It's winter again, and she probably already knows it. But what she doesn't know is how I would pay too much attention to the way the thin gold chain necklace her mother made her wear dips between her protruding collarbones and the way she fiddles with the hem of her skirt because I know she hates the way her knees look. And with the winter comes everything else.
It's that time of year again when everything comes flooding back. It always happens the same way: it's the way the trees cast shadows that seem darker than they were before, and the cold and breathless sunlight that rekindle that frantic, grappling feeling that scratches at my throat and compresses my chest, creating one nervous heartbeat after another, released into the inside of my sweater and coat, going unheard.
And suddenly she's sitting next to me on that bench that we've met at so many times. She's quiet and her scarf is pulled close to her chin, her eyes downcast. I remember staring at the way her neck curved upwards and the way her lips parted and closed right before she was about to say something but didn't. And the only time my thoughts broke was when she reminded me that the birds had forgot to sing that day and that she had to get home.
It's what she didn't say that kept me sitting there, staring at the barren trees that looked like skeleton hands against the milky sky, unrecognizable, like faces I can't remember and songs she doesn't sing anymore.
It never changes, this scene of nostalgic melancholy. It's a dream. A frozen dream that only resurfaces when the trees begin to turn and the skies begin to gray. Only then do I feel that recollection; that familiar itch. That heartache and bittersweet sentimentality that wears me out day after day.
[And I wonder if she can see it too.]
It's winter again, and she probably already knows it. But what she doesn't know is how I would pay too much attention to the way the thin gold chain necklace her mother made her wear dips between her protruding collarbones and the way she fiddles with the hem of her skirt because I know she hates the way her knees look. And with the winter comes everything else.
It's that time of year again when everything comes flooding back. It always happens the same way: it's the way the trees cast shadows that seem darker than they were before, and the cold and breathless sunlight that rekindle that frantic, grappling feeling that scratches at my throat and compresses my chest, creating one nervous heartbeat after another, released into the inside of my sweater and coat, going unheard.
And suddenly she's sitting next to me on that bench that we've met at so many times. She's quiet and her scarf is pulled close to her chin, her eyes downcast. I remember staring at the way her neck curved upwards and the way her lips parted and closed right before she was about to say something but didn't. And the only time my thoughts broke was when she reminded me that the birds had forgot to sing that day and that she had to get home.
It's what she didn't say that kept me sitting there, staring at the barren trees that looked like skeleton hands against the milky sky, unrecognizable, like faces I can't remember and songs she doesn't sing anymore.
It never changes, this scene of nostalgic melancholy. It's a dream. A frozen dream that only resurfaces when the trees begin to turn and the skies begin to gray. Only then do I feel that recollection; that familiar itch. That heartache and bittersweet sentimentality that wears me out day after day.
[And I wonder if she can see it too.]
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hoooo huuummm
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"... the way her lips parted and closed right before she was about to say something but didn't."
*smiles* i love your attention to detail - i always look forward to you posting more work.
Tell me, have you read any Mervyn Peake?
*smiles* i love your attention to detail - i always look forward to you posting more work.
Tell me, have you read any Mervyn Peake?