Closed eyes. Foursquare on the chair with nothing but hum and gurgle, light and fridge for company. Kurt rubbed flats of hands against legs and serge. The sound conjured the shush, shush of sea on shingles at midnight.
He opened his eyes and looked through the up and down strokes of long dried paint to a place he’d thought lost.
Eighteen years in his life. Her face as fresh as flowers he’d once woven through her hair. Life as strong as legs pounding the ground behind him as he ran before her. Vistas as boundless as the love in her heart, that he took and took with no thought of return.
Until now. When it was too late.
Eyes burned from foolish tears he’d knuckled back. A whimper of life in the cindered strip where his heart might have lived. A feeling he would hardly – could hardly have dared call love. Never admitted to. Never given entry into the creased up, greased up excuse for a life he’d almost had.
Even now – lonely on the shores of a sea with no truth, in the pressed down parts of a heart long since torn from the pages of a love story with a lonely ending – the kind that sits on the shelf forever. Even now he had no key to open his gates.
Eighteen hours in the ground. The worms to take her down. No fire. No flicker of flame. The time for those things gone. Forever gone.