Precious stone, all alone.

Your eyes snap open as you’re jolted awake. The crick in your neck tells you admonishingly that you’ve fallen asleep in front of the TV again; the cross-hatch marks in your arms mean it’s her old courduroy armchair, again.(The one you’d both sit in;
curled together on Sunday morning like teenagers freshly in love, all
tangled legs, attempting the newspaper crossword fruitlessly. You
loved the look of the morning light catching and playing with the green
of her eyes as you gazed up at her and she down at you, laughing,
tossing her hair like a girl. Those eyes you’d told her were like
emeralds, or a glassy sea, an alluring expanse of discoveries waiting
to be made, vast and unpredictable- you liked to believe you were
poetic in your youth. You’d won her over, hadn’t you? Your friends
all gawked, over- dramatic, when you had first introduced her. They
nudged one another’s elbows, making light- hearted jokes about the
amazing phenomenon that enticed beautiful women like her to men
like you. And, oh, she was beautiful. You’d watch her in the morning,
the dawn pulling you into a magical half- conciousness, just aware
enough to marvel at the gently breathing form beside you, draped in
cotton sheets and ribbons of lemon sunlight.)
A dull repetitive aching in your neck eases you back into the present- you reach back and massage the base of your skull with a hand that doesn’t seem to belong to you- you bring it back in front of your eyes, watery with newly- discarded sleep, and wonder when it was that it ceased looking like your hand. On your knees rest the hands of an old man. They are covered in thin, papery skin, the veins crudely marking out routes like waterways on a map, the fingers trembling annoyingly. These are not the hands that held hers. You wring them to distract yourself from the fact that you cannot keep them from shaking, try as you might.
Looking up, you curse yourself for still not having done anything about her things. Her pencils and unfinished manuscripts litter the oak writing desk; her scarf (the one she’d knitted) sags languidly from the doorknob of the coat closet (still full of her clothes); a tube of her lipstick lays on the coffee table beside her keys to the black oldsmobile, sitting stationary in the drive. Sitting.
Stationary.
Your eyes are more watery now.
Bonfire- coloured trees tower into the grey sea of sky from her window, a thin blue line pointing out the horizon. If you rest your head back on the courduroy, you can easily imagine it to be green.
Almost emerald.

Precious stone, all alone.

abigailswallow

Joined May 2008

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