BLUE
Sitting, you look over the calm blue water as the swells line up bringing in your past, wave after wave.
A dream wakes you into your twelfth year of life. Your aunt and uncle stand above, an aura silhouetted by sick cerulean curtains. Are you in a coffin? It is cold, very cold; drips of sweat dribble off your brow, saline drops trickle through your lashes. Drip. Blink. Drip. Blink.
Pain scrapes tracks across your bones, the hub: your heart. This is unlike anything else, unlike broken fingers, or face kissing shattered windshield spurs, or convulsive radioactive cancer therapy slams—this is loneliness and emptiness.
A green-cerulean wave crashes churning shades of browns and whites into murky smooth ripples, a wet-cement smoothing of the shore. Will the dawn ever break?
1 comment:
wow she's hot, love the blue!
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