themelancholylogophile
He'd been to see Nirvana twice before. Probably alone, definitely stoned. He always said Kurt Cobain would've wanted it that way.
Don't tell me I am hollow-- I already know that my body holds only the unrealized hopes of a quarter century.
A mist danced in the light of the street lamp. It covered her eyelashes and the pale hair of her exposed arms. A car passed, windshield wipers oscillating far too vigorously for the scant precipitation.
The organist's final note lingered and they all bowed their heads in prayer. I looked to my left where a woman sputtered quietly, having been moved to tears. I felt nothing.
And for the first time I noticed, behind a sheen of beautifully alarming green eyes there was a glint of something else-- malice.
With a single sentence, a chasm opened up between us that we could never again bridge. I would continue to love her and she would continue to make sure that loving her hurt.
Fables are an age-old means of delivering lessons to children in palatable, bite-sized pieces that even the adults who narrate them have not yet learned to swallow.
I used to get this feeling that I could never adequately explain to my mom. It crept into me without warning like a somatic deja-vu, as if the moment itself was haunted.
Tunnel vision, tinnitus, the tremor of a thousand wasps inside your ribcage. Hope collapsed as the backs of your trembling knees hit the couch. This is where it ended, with a panic attack in a stranger's home.
She danced to Paul Simon and I died a little inside, knowing that this moment could never be replicated. Tomorrow would arrive and all I'd have left of it is the memory of a joy so pure that I never wanted to recall it too often, for fear that we would become obscured.
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