Current Residence: second star to the right and straight on til morning.
Favourite genre of music: all. (except country. which should die a slow, painful death.)
PrioritiesThe lilting white noise of the fan was not enough.Priorities by blusteryautumnbreeze
The comforting and assured tapping of the keys was not enough.
The incessant whine of electronic devices was not enough.
The words, snaking through her skull and tapping on her forehead, were not enough.
Because the words were left unwritten, as they so often are.
But the laundry was done.
The bed was made, sheets tucked in and quilt straightened to ninety degree angles.
The sink glistened and boasted its emptiness.
The dog had been washed, brushed, and fed, and now sat panting happily by the door.
The urgent emails had been sent, with a friendly but emotionally distant tone.
Hair had been coiffed to perfection.
Coffee had been made, and served, during an afternoon chat.
But the notebook sat empty, as the keys clicked away.
Another email, another form, another assignment.
Writing could wait. It had been waiting this long.
Running AwayShe was running again, running through the downpour and running through the pain but mostly running away, away from him and his lies and his wonderful words and the way he caressed her cheek and breathed her name and the way he broke her in half. Her lungs burned from the effort of running and hatred. Her throat burned from the effort of holding back the tears. And then, as suddenly as they started, her feet stopped and her body lurched from the abruptness. There was a park bench a short two steps away and so she staggered towards it and sat, heavily, as if all of the burdens weighing her down fell onto the bench with her.Running Away by blusteryautumnbreeze
And then the tears came. Again, as they always did. There was always this fighting and this running and this crying and the eventually return and acceptance. She would apologize like she had done something wrong and he would graciously envelop her in his arms as if he was the kindest, most forgiving person in the world. He would never apologize. Why should he, when s
To be Wanted, to be UsedThere was something in the way he spokeTo be Wanted, to be Used by blusteryautumnbreeze
Symphony in his words
Magic in his fingertips
Kindness and pain in his eyes
He had felt much
And seen little
He was medicine to her
For a while.
Her broken mind
Her lonely heart
Then he was a parasite
Feeding off of her love
Off of her innocence
There was darkness for a long time
She forgot how to see the light
He tried to teach her, but
He didn't understand why she
Was so afraid.
Fear of everything.
Fear of him.
And he couldn't understand.