Marquee neon spotlights the startled expression of someone who once pretended to love me. My hand reaches deep into my empty coat pocket and it’s then I realize: I’ve already tossed our past away.
A 33 word Trifecta-like writing challenge for myself and for writer Tom MacInnes. Please pop over to Tom’s new blog to read his response.
At the intersection of what has always been and what might be,
A short teenage girl stretches tall, centre stage,
Her favourite blouse of red and white stripes complete with floppy bow
Distracts only slightly from her deliberately punc-tu-a-ted words,
Shared into a screechy mic atop the old oak podium.
Harsh amateur spotlight provides a momentary halo,
Trades her dark chestnut hair for light ashy blonde.
The change mimics her rehearsed act of defiance,
Trading natural, absolute shyness
For feigned, casual confidence.
A fledgling leader addressing her assembled, disheveled, constituents,
Before fifth bell dismisses classes for the day.
Sisters, unlike.
One rounded, one jagged.
Puzzle pieces never able to click-fit.
Don’t make trouble, I begged,
Never understanding she didn’t.
Her heart broken in shards, impossible to mend.
My wrists cut in bloody despair.
She salved, bandaged my wounds
Before fading from view.
*****
Itching to know the cool breeze upon her back, urging her.
To herself be a verse of possibilities rather than the chorus on repeat,
She answered yes to questions she’d dared not say aloud.
Then as they slept, she crept,
Leapt.
And walked away.
d’Verse Poets celebrate 7 years online with this quadrille prompt: itch
Let the breeze billow the curtains,
Let the light and warmth favour us,
Let the joy tickle our bare skin.
We may doubt this glorious constant,
But nature’s life cycle, renewing possibilities, revisiting brief serenity,
Repeats until we are no more. Then repeats again.
Many’s the night you’ve walked these same miles, without ever lifting from your chair.
Dreams like loosed cobblestones, a path crumbling underneath your worn, hobo shoes.
Brief solace sometimes sought, diversions for your wearied soul.
Slippery side streets and names you no longer remember.
This week, dVerse Poets provided the Quadrille (44 words) prompt word: cobble.
