Another night has passed
Of whispers and deep sighs
But she no longer hides
From the fears that now subside
The memories still linger
They flicker like the stars
These visits are what heal her
So the bedroom door’s ajar
In response to dVerse’s Poetics: Leave the porch light on hosted by Lillian. I remember writing for MTB before about the memories that visits in the night. These are memories that don’t just leave because the other person might have. What would you do? Do you let them build you a ruin? Or do you let the night be your healing?
I surround myself with emptiness: an empty jar that was once filled with the sweetest jam an hourglass whose sands of time were blown by the wind a light bulb— unable to shine with its filaments gone a wine glass that I sleep with till my waking days
Call this madness or a hint of desperation
Curse this bed of despair from which I lie
But I surround myself with emptiness
So I can simply forget about mine
The setting sun dropped a little lower, shifting the skies to a golden palette of colors that stretched across the horizon. She could feel the sea slowly creeping over as she walked towards the water and felt the crashing waves at her feet. Beautiful, she thought.
Her happiness rolled in like the waves of ocean echoing their gaiety as she recounted the treasured moments of yesteryear like times past held delicately between her fingertips—the myriad highs and abyssal lows, the surge of love and the grief of loss, the rise and fall, the fear and peace, the infinite procession of life. She remembers great friends, lovers, families, and acquaintances with passionate embraces, then departing with fond farewells in hopes of meeting once again.
Taking a deep breath, she realized that she wasn’t really trying to hide, more likely, she sought to be found. And in finding her being, she found her peace. Slowly, she walked towards a large tree near the shore and sat beneath its shade.
“Goodbyes do often come in waves.” She softly whispered as her lips curved into a smile and saw the last remnants of the day fade.
As a tribute, I’ve decided to use my very first entry to Mondays Finish the Story entitled, Perfect Spot.
My experience with Mondays Finish the Story prompts goes beyond the number of posts I have made and the tales I have weaved. It became a place for meeting brilliant minds and quarters for learning and fun. All praises go to Barbara Beacham. Thank you. You will never be forgotten.