Thursday, 21 January 2016

Far-off shores.

( A short, fictional piece of writing.)

My legs measured the bed, in search of another pair. My body shivered, the blankets coudn't warm one's cold soul. In the middle of the night, I opened my eyes, realising you aren't here. Again. Sadness crept into my breasts like the roots of an oak tree. I got hold of a pillow, your pillow. It doesn't hold back. It's not the story of this night. It happens, and it happens and it happens repeatedly. I am made up of stubborn things. I cannot get used to things I don't like, things that hurt me. So, I would never say I have gotten into the habit of this desolation and that it doesn't matter now. It does matter and it forever will. Save me or see me drown, for you are the one with the oar.  You make me jump off the boat when it's too heavy for you to paddle through the rough waters. Make sure you give a hand before it's too late. I have heard the sea swallows people. The ones abandoned by boatmen.