phoebemari
She spoke to me like we're still close, like nothing had happened and she hadn't turned me out. As if she thought I was expendable, but at the last minute just good enough to make the cut.
he plays the accordion like my grandpa used to. and he loves their music too. the fold, unfold, the keys they press. together they make an amazing mess, of sound and older memories. he plays just like my grandpa used to.
her palette of paints- dried, so the colors aren't quite right. they set too fast. and the plastic palette lies there pretty, paint stroked and color favor, but her canvas shines, white and light, strangely uncovered. unprotected, lonely.
alleged reluctance manifests in pressed repressed and ironed button-ups.
she stood standing there, holding the camera still as she could. but the angle's wrong.
she bent down a bit, crouching near it, with the lens gripped tight, but the light is different here.
he cut the newspaper article out last sunday, clipped the coupons in the shopping pages, and tried desperately to think of a way to organize his life like the neat piles of sorted coupons he was making.
so if i had the chance i think, i'd like to tell him just one thing. it's not that kind of love we think. but more the kind where i don't want to live without. not that i can't, just that i don't want to. would never choose to. but that's not the kind of thing you just say. if the chance ever came i don't think i'd have a choice, it would just spill out.
the chance the choice, too many different ways to go. i'm indecisive to a fault. for myself- that too. but more for others. it's their choice, their chance maybe or maybe not. so why should i be the one to decide? take the chance or not? it's your life not mine. your chance, your choice.
she stood rooted to the floor. her mind in places yesterday. eyes glassy out of focus her mouth hung slightly open.
he'd been watching her stand there from his seat at his terminal. waiting for her to move- it had been a while maybe ten minutes- no doubt infinitely longer or shorter in her mind.
as her head tilted just slightly to the left he mentally compared her to a confused puppy. he supposed puzzled was one way to see her expression, but he suspected she was mostly lost with a touch of uncertain melancholy. her roots were holding her back he concluded.
one mississippi... two mississippi... the thunder crashed in the distance and the eyes of the little girl sitting in the window got bigger. her voice got softer, lower and deeper as she stared half-terrified and half in amazement at the clouds rolling in. one mississippi...
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