i like being sad.
Crystal pearls streak her blushing face.
kinda how the moon,
well,
how she likes to come out during the day sometimes.
Gangling limbs drip from her shoulders and hips.
it’s like being happy…only different.
so it’s not so bad.
I lose myself in her logic. She’s so lovely when she feels.
Do you want some company?
do you ever find it hard to pretend?
I accept that as an invitation to sit next to her on the wooden porch step.
Pretend what?
i’m so sick of this place.
it’s grown so old.
not even the music has changed.
She half-heartedly swipes at the air in front of her, scattering the accumulating gnats and dismissing my previous question.
Where would you rather be?
new york.
My attention span latches itself to her nervous voice. I continue my interrogation:
What’s in new york?
people.
But, isn’t that what you’re going to get away from?
yes.
I furrow my brow to express my obvious confusion. A fresh wave of sadness wracks her body with penetrating sobs.
i just
can’t stay
here.
You just got back from Tucson though. Don’t you want to stay home for a while? All your friends are here.
nobody even knows me anymore.
‘You don’t know us anymore,’ I keep to myself. I didn’t want to sound selfish, but I was only human.
What about me?
you only know who i was
two years ago.
you don’t know who i am
now.
two years is a long time.
I watch as she examines her pale, experienced fingers, clenching them, stretching them in the thin, cool air.
our lives are too different.
what do we even have in common
anymore?
My heart drops like an elevator with its cables cut, screaming into the bloodiest of my cavernous depths.
We’re best friends.
we’re just friends.
Deformed zombie butterflies begin flailing to life in my stomach. Her sad words sing them their resurrection.
i’m not happy.
I purposely slip some frustration into my question.
Didn’t you just say you liked being sad?
you don’t understand.
we’ve changed apart.
My lungs collapse. My heart stops beating. My jaw drops. I fumble for sound; an awkward silence smothers the moment and I recoil as though I was just shot in the knee, losing her in the surrounding darkness.
i can’t stay here.
My eyes shift to hers, creating a spark of empty realization and something I thought I’d put to rest years ago snaps awake under my skin before we part gazes.
where are you going?
I stand to burn my eyes with the setting sun. My pockets swallow my hands. Everything is so empty and familiar. The remaining veins of light drool towards the horizon as a cascade of ink blankets our communion.
Nowhere.
I’ll always be here.
For you.
Samson
when the time comes…
(inspired by my nomad lifestyle and written with a friend from back home when we could find time online over the past few days.)
-
I listened to a lot of Regina Spektor for this, namely the song I titled it after, Samson. Give it a listen. while you read. Might help with the emotions and understanding where I’m coming from with the title.
Mark German, 7 months ago
Your writing fascinates me.
Kristy Lee, 7 months ago
Wow! BVrilliantly done.
Your style is so unique and so effective. I absolutely love it.
Kristy Lee, 7 months ago
*brilliantly even
LisaG, 7 months ago
Exceptional, I froze and felt each part of the conversation….
LisaG, 7 months ago
PS – I’m a huge Regina Spektor fan :)))))))))))))))
Lys • in reply to Kristy Lee’s comment, 7 months ago
:)
thanks. this took a lot of effort for us to write…lots of real emotions
Tony Fallon, 7 months ago
“Gangling limbs drip from her shoulders and hips”...where did that come from..brilliant ! What an exceptional and observational work. Magnificent ! You had my hands in my pockets too, living alongside each word, remembering my past, and feeling that forlorn communion of nowhere. Like the whole circle of life and ambition leads to everywhere including the home you started out from in the first place; but it sometimes takes a lifetime to know it and it sometimes takes you out along the way ?
Tarlee, 7 months ago
I feel such a familiarity with this piece that as I read it I wept silent and internally. Thank you for such a deep personal connection, to such a distant conversation.
flower68, 7 months ago
write more of this.It’s brilliant.
MarshallKnight, 7 months ago
Really ineresting work. I can relate to coming home and everything seeming to have changed, when in reality only i’ve changed. The only thing you can truly rely on is yourself.
I never really thought about writing in collaboration before. I might give it a go. Nice 1. : )
atelier, 7 months ago
Brilliant, indeed. Throwing in Regina Spektor as a soundtrack isn’t bad either. Your friend sounds like a very special person and a good writer, too. Your work is always satisfying and never a chore to read.
atelier, 7 months ago
And damn… I just thought of the connection to Samson (though I can’t suppose to know you intended this interpretation). It’s like you are Delilah, cutting away Samson’s hair/your friend’s strength through your friendship. Very meaningful to me at least.
Lys • in reply to atelier’s comment, 7 months ago
you know :)
wesner1, 7 months ago
What work!!!
visualsense, 7 months ago
well done! That really reached somewhere deep within me…I’m experiencing something similar right now.
Krisso, 7 months ago
It’s honest and thats why I love it!
Rachael Hope, 7 months ago
I just LOVE this it gripped me so hard I had to know more gosh you’re a special talent
montdragon, 7 months ago
All my friends are dead, I killed them one by one, I did it that way….no pain no inane refrains just me alone. When I can and only when I want, I speak to them and say I miss you…the dead don’t hear…I killed them one by one.
You wonder what and why and when does it began that drift that drifts you apart