My love

My love,

some mornings

I see your rain-soaked face

(wet, wet hair, and cloudy eyes)

in my reflection

in the mirror

which hangs by my bedroom door

and my heart spreads its wings

if only for a moment

My love, I often think

of the way your warmth

felt on my skin

when you told me

that you felt like your body was

made up of nothing

but music

and though I couldn't hear your song

(I tried hard, I really did)

I smiled

And my love, I want to walk the thousand miles

Which lead to your house

and tell you

that the concept of love

is eternally flawed.

It's too forgetful to be a forever

too deep to disappear

it's endless

yet it ceases

and when ours came to a stop

you ended and

I began

Challenge

Challenge of the Week CIX

Was that a Question? Begin your entry with a question. Perhaps it's one you know the answer to, and we too will know by the end of our reading. Perhaps it's something you barely fathom an answer for, and will ponder via the pen. You can write anything you want, so long as it begins with a question. Fiction of non-fiction, poetry or Prose.

Shellsong

Lost

How does one lose a person?

Crumpled up papers lie in the bottom of her bag-hundreds of notes she has written, but never sent. I run my fingers through them, too hesitant to open them up, as it feels too much like an invasion of her heart-the heart that has long forgotten its way.

The smell of her-roses, with a hint of cinnamon, lingers on every piece of paper and I take a deep breath inhaling the hidden words. I never knew she had so much to say. I put her bag down, and make my way to the stained glass window at the corner of the room, prying open the window panes.

These days, I seem to find traces of her everywhere and anywhere I look. Old, faded black and white photographs--her face captured mid-smile, mid-word, mid-frown, constantly moving from the middle to the end. Broken bottles of glass, stained with blood-also hers, litter the alleyways behind her house.

She tried to keep her grief a secret, but it coats and stains every surface of every room she walks into. Her sadness is so infectious that I can feel it burning under my skin, singing inside my bloodstream. She is within me, but she is lost. She is everywhere, but she is never at home. I want to find her, I have to catch her. But when I run, she sprints. I leap, she soars. She is nameless, and I am flightless. So I pick up the faded paper notes she will never remember again, and burn them all to dust.