Post by Invisible Lazaarus on Dec 8, 2012 2:00:42 GMT -5
This is what my sleep-deprived brain creates. Sorry for dumping it on you.
After the Fact
Everyone is someone to somebody.
There is no one that walks a perfect path across the black desert. We all leave our footprints. If we really try, we can look back and see the places where our footprints have crossed another's...
See that there, the two pairs of feet facing each other? I met you then. It was a cold rainy night, I remember. Your umbrella had pink dots on it. They dipped down in front of you when you smiled.
Look, I see two marks in the black sand. We sat there for a bit and you told me things that needed to be told. The sky was clear then, I see. I remember the moon gleaming bright in your eyes like a beacon shining through.
Ah, the place where our footsteps knot and twist. We danced then, some twirling and spinning dance that you came up with on the spot. I think it might have been snowing then. Your shades were drawn, and we spun softly in the light that soaked in.
I can see our footprints stretching out into the distance, four trails endlessly intertwined. You would always walk ahead. It was simply in your nature.
But what's this? Your prints are moving away, they are disappearing into the horizon, my prints are going on without you. How could you? How could I?
My prints go on for years across the desert. They meet no other.
Until once, near the end of their length, when they meet yours again.
Your prints lead to four small marks in the sand. Some sort of furniture, I guess. A bed, probably. There are two tracks nearby. I must have stood there for quite some time. It was sunny outside, the weather ignoring what was happening before me.
Your tracks end here.
My tracks almost do too.
I see the black mountains at the edge of my vision. I know that my tracks end there, but I do not follow them just yet. I must remain here for a bit longer, trying to conjure out of the quiet air the tick of a clock, the beep of a monitor, the last breath of a beautiful woman.
After the Fact
Everyone is someone to somebody.
There is no one that walks a perfect path across the black desert. We all leave our footprints. If we really try, we can look back and see the places where our footprints have crossed another's...
See that there, the two pairs of feet facing each other? I met you then. It was a cold rainy night, I remember. Your umbrella had pink dots on it. They dipped down in front of you when you smiled.
Look, I see two marks in the black sand. We sat there for a bit and you told me things that needed to be told. The sky was clear then, I see. I remember the moon gleaming bright in your eyes like a beacon shining through.
Ah, the place where our footsteps knot and twist. We danced then, some twirling and spinning dance that you came up with on the spot. I think it might have been snowing then. Your shades were drawn, and we spun softly in the light that soaked in.
I can see our footprints stretching out into the distance, four trails endlessly intertwined. You would always walk ahead. It was simply in your nature.
But what's this? Your prints are moving away, they are disappearing into the horizon, my prints are going on without you. How could you? How could I?
My prints go on for years across the desert. They meet no other.
Until once, near the end of their length, when they meet yours again.
Your prints lead to four small marks in the sand. Some sort of furniture, I guess. A bed, probably. There are two tracks nearby. I must have stood there for quite some time. It was sunny outside, the weather ignoring what was happening before me.
Your tracks end here.
My tracks almost do too.
I see the black mountains at the edge of my vision. I know that my tracks end there, but I do not follow them just yet. I must remain here for a bit longer, trying to conjure out of the quiet air the tick of a clock, the beep of a monitor, the last breath of a beautiful woman.