AS WE GO ALONG.
There are certain songs I keep with me for company, usually in a breast pocket,
tucked in with that rose quartz Patrick said would heal my heart,
or a couple of gold coins saved for a secret purchase of some sweet thing,
or that dried up piece of lavender from that achingly perfect day in Newtown.
Every time I rummage around for the Monkees song I like,
I pull out that wretched flower instead, still clinging onto the faintest, greying scent,
and along with it equally fading memories brushed in with that same horrid, smokey purple;
memories I should probably misplace sometime soon;
memories of lips, and
leaning out of windows;
the tiniest
touches;
tremors, gold leaf,
and a goodbye kiss.
***
Who hurt this poor girl?
From almost two years ago now, and not very good, but I remember this being something I needed to write at the time. I thought I'd put it here with all the other little things I've said. In the notebook I found this in, the opposite page has FUCK YOU written in big angry letters, if that helps with context.
Is anyone still here to see this? Be sure to say hi if you are — friendly faces are all too welcome. Tell me how you're doing and what you're doing. I'm dying to know.
