"Read it slow. So you can feel each syllable echo through your body." She hands him the torn pages that are so brittle the wind created as she passes them over starts to tear the loose corners.
As he grabs the pieces that resemble pages, he attempts to decipher any meaning.
Is life nothing more than air entering and exiting the lungs? Do we create meaning or is it the soul of the world?
She smiles, she can see his face; he struggles.
She knows what is to come.
Tears followed by relief.
1 comment:
ah. wow. ah.
i love this.
and i can't really put into word exactly why, but it's beautiful.
i've honestly read it about 10 times in the past five minutes.
you've just earned a spot on my wall.
hope everything is wonderful with you.
xox
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