I used to dream of aging structures. I would walk through their halls, the walls casting shadows shrouding the mysteries residing there, echoing footfalls of doubt and fear, time running out.
You are more than just an old house, to me.
All I ever wanted was a break in the clouds, a respite from the rain, clear blue skies.
We’re making up for a lost time while clouds obscure our eyes. There is no reclamation. That particular part of the trail has washed out. It is impassable.
We don’t come back for old times’ sake. Each moment feels as if it is gazed upon with fresh new eyes, although we’ve been here for a while—the faded memory of an old house.
Winter’s cello-like melancholy strings reverberate its solitude in cold space.
The ice expands and cracks in the light. Shivers run down my spine.
Before I know it, salty waves lap at my ankles. It’s expanse immersing me. “We will make this island famous,” it whispers in my ears, as the wind sends curls in all directions like Medusa’s snakes, filling the sails we will Captain.
And before I knew it, it was time to leave. I don’t have to see your face; I know you’ll remember me.
The long, linear, shadow-filled halls now shuttered. Orion’s circular and eternal night sky dance shines as my beacon. It has always been there, as have we. Time doesn’t unwind; I have only to await a return. I hold my steaming coffee cup close; my new sweater feels a little scratchy but mostly soft against my goose-pimpled skin.