In his mind
there's petals,
spread out
in a rolling red
country side.
Intermittent fluffy clouds
stipple the baby blue gradient
of the sky.
The two colors meet
at the top
of a small hill,
and that's where she lies.
Half outlined
by both contrasting
shades of the day,
the sun shines
in the corners
of her eyes.
Eyes that match
the same baby blue
as the azure heights.
A love that matches
the crimson petals.
A ***** golden halo
of liquid flowing locks
cascades around her face,
it dances on her shoulders.
The shadows of her collarbones are
accentuated as she turns and sees him.
Her hand raises, beckoning and waving
as she smiles so brilliantly in the distance.
He takes a step forward, anticipating
how her skin feels on his fingertips.
Wondering how well her hands
fit into his, wanting to be embraced
by her very essence, her laugher,
her arms, her voice ringing in his ears.
The step turns into a stride, into a light jog.
His smile fades as he keeps moving forward,
watching as she stays the same distance away. The hill flees his every step, and when
finally he stops moving he's slightly winded
and she's no closer than when first she turned to look at him.
He can see her eyebrows slightly furrow
in the distance, but still she smiles.
Still she beckons. Still she sits on the hill,
waiting.
He glances down, feeling a twinge on his ankle and right where his calf meets the top of his foot is a hand.
A familiar hand, one he knows. One he sees before him every day.
His own hand wrapped around his ankle, attached to a sallow, paltry figure hunched over behind him, and behind that one
is another one. A chain of all the people
he is, all the people that he doesn't
want to be. As far as the eye can see,
all linked up and dragging each other
back, a macabre folding Jacob's ladder.
A mirror wouldn't do it justice, he knows
himself. He knows what he looks like on the bottle, on the apathy. He knows they're
all him and his ******* corrupted ways.
He knows what his hands look like
wrapped around, gripping.
Fingers digging into flesh.
It's him. It's always been him.
Holding himself back.
Stopping progress.
Falling behind.
He turns again to see her,
forces a smile, and waves.
Up there
waving in the air,
his hand starts to cramp.