Evenings
Swinging our legs off the wooden porch, warm glasses of yellow wine, shoulder to shoulder with my best friend. Our perfumes like small attention-starved children, scrapping in the air between us. The generic summer evenings that seem to stretch, the mower droning in the distance, smells of fresh cut grass and sunscreen, mosquitos batting at your ankles. A ciggy hanging from your lips, her lips, everyone's lips. Pink lipsticked butts floating in the ash tray.
"What are you doing Tui?" she said. "It's not cool any more." I looked into my glass, down to the bottom. I hadn't known she knew. "Come home," she said. "You have to come home."
The smell of night vegetation, flowers moist and lush rose from the dark shadows around us. Home.
Somewhere, from deep inside, a sigh fought to escape. Suddenly, I felt very tired.
"What are you doing Tui?" she said. "It's not cool any more." I looked into my glass, down to the bottom. I hadn't known she knew. "Come home," she said. "You have to come home."
The smell of night vegetation, flowers moist and lush rose from the dark shadows around us. Home.
Somewhere, from deep inside, a sigh fought to escape. Suddenly, I felt very tired.
posted by tui at 6:26 PM
2 Comments:
So true butterfly.
I believe there are ways of dealing with baggage, but its never easy.
I myself struggle with certain mistakes I've made.
Some things can just never be accepted.
I hope you find a way to deal with yours.
you're such a vivid writer. it's hard to imagine your experiences as real because you make them seem so poetic, in that dark, sexy way that insanity is romantic when you're 16.
does living them ever seem poetic or do you simply write them that way?
Post a Comment
<< Home