917 Into Oblivion

{ Thursday, October 6, 2011 }
Driving, white knuckles and black nails
Inhaling the sensual essence of autumn.
It's remarkable, really,
How hints of hickory that slice through my lungs bring on the waves of nostalgia,
Akin to waves of nausea,
Coaxing me, beckoning me to give in to my mind's photographic eye.
I swerve into the bend of the road,
Door open, ready to bolt.
Boots hitting the gravel and off we go.
It all comes back in waves,
Waves of color,
Aubergine, russet, and maroon --
The spectrum of dead leaves,
Decaying, rotting, and stagnant under a formerly beautiful specimen.
Do you remember?
Carving into wood the branding of initials,
Speaking a foreign language of plans and "one days,"
Soft fingers intertwined and exploring,
Brushing the hair from my innocent face,
Planting kisses all over me, my neck,
On the soft S of my back,
A "shh," a secret I couldn't keep covert even if I wanted to.
Arguments ending in a breathless entanglement of flesh,
Traversing the creek and calling it our own.
But the words got in the way.
My letters --
You hated them.
You hated the words, the beautiful, eloquent words.
You couldn't decipher the rich meaning,
And the frustration turned to wrath, turned to scorn.
You hated me.
You cursed every word I penned,
Cursed my dreams, my heart.
I began falling asleep alone,
Paperbacks cradled in my arms,
A hollowed, empty space where your heartbeat used to lie.
And then I was alone.
The words meant too much, they still mean too much --
They spill from my mouth like sweet wine to anyone who will listen,
From my pen like an amalgam of black ink and wantonness.
The letters don't stop --
I write to a quixotic "You," certain that one day I will find you.
The one ember left, shouldering and sparking in the wind, is hope.
Hope.
It's all that I've got.
I slam the door, check the rear view for any glimmering mirage, and floor it into oblivion.

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