the hill bore the red beacons, synchronizing with the grooves in the highway. But through the frosted windows of her core, they were nothing but a drawing she'd seen often . She had abused herself, turned herself inside-out for them. And they abandoned her for their own fantasies. Perhaps she was too possessive. Perhaps they were her fantasy and she was a hypocrite who was too bitter to move on.

To move on. Did she have the strength to do such a thing? They were her pillars, and she wanted to be theirs. But they sought no solace in her words or arms. They hardened themselves and toughed it out, so why couldn't she so simply replace them with her self-reliance she kept for the rainier days? What was it that made them so necessary to her? And then she realized that her necessity was a type of fear. That their absence would inevitably mean some absence of her own self. The same absence she was feeling now. Empty, numb, and driving the part.

writing is my fever pitch
throws out my faux discretions
and somehow finds such lines and stanzas
a list of bold transgressions.

in words without a fever at all
but full of reason and rhythm and rhyme
of course i'm speaking of yours
not mine.

at times they miss the time they spent
in the queue that never moved.
For action would mean desperation.
or worse, a love disproved.

because, you see,
i am prose, and you are poetry
i fall between your meters and metes
unable to fit your soliloquy

and at the bottom, there is beauty that these syllables do make
when they are free to flow as they will.

without rule.

He had to convince himself that this same feeling hangs in the air even when the leaves have gone. That autumn is not the source of charm. Rather, a reminder of it.

The city howled at the moon as she sat there feeling lifeless, the harsh brightness of the screen drawing her into a whirlwind of thoughts. The kind of thoughts that were never true, but she still perpetuated as a cruel way to lie to herself. She imagined that she had been forgotten by the ones who still understood her. It's not so hard to do when you're depressed, wondering why your friends aren't trying to find you in the same maze they've become lost and alone in. The thoughts become poisons so thick you can feel them crawling into your brain and staining it all a blurred sort of darkness until you've become blind with it. She welcomed them in, knowing they would hurt her. She wanted them to.

"It's less than before", she said.

the city outside never saw light. Always made its own.

"Are you sure it will work this time?"

"You shouldn't be holding any doubts. It's dangerous you know."

He took the candle and went to the other room while she made herself lonely again, as he'd asked. It was the moments of time where she found her safety. The spaces that stand still between the ticks and tocks, the subsiding panic and the following rise. She stuffed blankets into the crevasses of her thoughts so she could sleep on them and perhaps find a way out. More often than not, she just found memories.

But he believed in her. He was the only one to notice the cryptograms because no one else bothered to look far enough. Every time she felt the pain was a lost opportunity to decipher. He cared. He had to care. This was her chance at divinity. His chance to know the truth.

"Are you ready?"

She didn't respond

"Alright. Here we go"

She aligned her back with the floorboards and pretended to sleep as air and copper spun around her. She began to feel it working, moving inside her like a flame dancing in circles. He asked her how she felt, but she couldnt speak. The fluttering feeling was too overwhelming.

"I think it's working," he said.

She felt gravity losing its pull and suddenly there was no up or down. No floor or direction or temperature. And soon after, all that remained was silence and inifinite clarity. But inside, she was calm. She was blissful.

The anima of a spirit has no delineation or detail. It becomes homogenous, weightless, impenetrable. Unimaginable.

Was she a spirit? She couldn't decide. It wasn't her decision or really a decision at all. Whatever she'd become, she remained cognizant of her own existence.

"...a-......are you..."

The flickering candlelight showed his face, incredulous and fearful. He hesistantly made his way into the room. Inching closer to the faint glow he saw where he had left her. A gust from an open window snatched up his candle flame and flung the window shut. It was silent.

"Yes"

Taking this out of my book, so i figured i'd immortalize it as a short story

“Rena. Can you play me a song?”

”Sure. What do you want to hear?”

”Play me what you’re feeling right now. Not the feelings of some old composer guy. I want to hear exactly what you're feeling right now.”

”Okay.”

I slowly walked over to the piano and sat down, taking in its scent, the same as any good piano. That scent always calms me, reminds me of my childhood. I laid my fingers on the keys and closed my eyes, and let the feelings flow out as they came.

The first key was an F, my favorite. It blossomed and swelled like winds before a storm, and sent the heat of our lives away, leaving the cool, sweet, rain; cool as the September night. My fingers fluttered up and down scales, changing direction every now and then. I ended on a long note and focused on it like the last sigh of an era. It sank into me and slowly peeled away more layers. The next layer was desperate and cold and I let it brush the keys. The sound felt dry and black, like walking through a forest, recently burned, dying embers still snapping and hissing. It was the quiet screams of the dead. A thousand restless souls within my own, with power overwhelming enough to stop me. My fingers moved away from the keyboard, but the agony kept going.

”I’m sorry, David.” I said, barely together. “I can’t go on.”

”Hey hey. Don’t cry. I’m sorry I asked you to do this.”

He came over and sat next to me on the bench.

“It’s just…I feel like I can really understand you when you play. And you’ve played more than enough for me to understand how you feel. I’m sorry, Rena. Let’s just go to bed.”

”Okay…”

We moved upstairs to my room and I quickly got in bed. David turned off the light this time and came to sit beside me. My tears had evaporated by now, and I started thinking to myself: David is still here. I shouldn’t waste this time crying, I should make every minute with him the greatest minute, because these will be the moments I’ll always remember when he’s away.

Before he left me, David brushed his fingers through my hair.

"Rena. Someday, when I get back. The three of us will break away from all of this and be free."

"Free...I'd love that."

if you do not feel it

then don't have me believe that you do

pity in love is a sentiment closer to insult

than consolation