There’s a little bench on Snowdrop Cliff. It’s not centred, and it’s too far back to see the..edge, but you can still witness those faraway lights.
I retract from my dangerous leer over Cliff’s…edge, retreating to the bench. This seat is strikingly dear to me, – to us. We somehow met here, often. Perhaps, even firstly. I sweep the fresh snow from the wood and follows a pain as unforgettable as heart-break. I lay myself down on it, curling my body into it’s flattened discomfort.
With my head now propped vertically, it all looks so odd.
Snow City’s light appear squished between the Cliff and the mountains opposite me, surrounding the city like a gigantic ceramic bowl.
Peculiar and poignant.
I begin to softly sob. And then violently, but only in my eyes. My throat is fine. And now I am weeping like a sick and wet baby, effortfully soundlessly, whimpering against myself and at myself. A baby who doesn’t bother screaming because it has learned this tactic is futile. Nobody comes.
A little gust of wind patrols suddenly and shuffles the snow in front of me. It shows me everything in highlighted whisps.
It hurts to see, but I have met it’s acquaintance. Inside my nightmares, my hopeful dreams and most distinctly out of sleep, it plays on loop. It shows me us.
I could stuff chimneys with how much I could write about us. Those memories.
I take the pain silently, as I always do, allowing it in and to settle (lovewords that I have lost). It fills my cotton soul with moisture until it begins dripping the excess of what it can carry.
And why do we lie? You and I, to each other, about each other. Or, sorry, did. I wonder what the truth is. I wonder if I would even believe it if someone told me.