I don't know how to write this down,
What words are there for the longing
felt by a nineteen year old girl sitting on her bed
staring out the window at 1:30 in the morning
after finishing Pride and Prejudice for the umpteenth time?
What words can express the burning desire
for something she's never had,
nor is likely to have,
that grips her heart and freezes her brain
as she stares out the darkened window?
Part of me wants to make it poetry,
Silver beams,
Fall through the branches of the tree,
And wash over my face,
Like the tears my heart cannot conjure,
Strangely empty, it seems,
Is the sky,
Apart from those silver beams,
And my soul is still and quiet,
But anxious and impatient,
And for what I know not,
But even poetry is insufficient,
No pretty turn of phrase can encompass the simultaneous
swelling and crushing and binding and breaking and burning of my heart
as I stared at what little moonlight filtered through the leaves,
The house around me, deafeningly quiet,
Like a living tomb that entraps me,
What restlessness is this,
And what is it's end?
May 21, 2020
May 21, 2020 at 6:11 PM UTC
I don't know how to write this down,
What words are there for the longing
felt by a nineteen year old girl sitting on her bed
staring out the window at 1:30 in the morning
after finishing Pride and Prejudice for the umpteenth time?
What words can express the burning desire
for something she's never had,
nor is likely to have,
that grips her heart and freezes her brain
as she stares out the darkened window?
Part of me wants to make it poetry,
Silver beams,
Fall through the branches of the tree,
And wash over my face,
Like the tears my heart cannot conjure,
Strangely empty, it seems,
Is the sky,
Apart from those silver beams,
And my soul is still and quiet,
But anxious and impatient,
And for what I know not,
But even poetry is insufficient,
No pretty turn of phrase can encompass the simultaneous
swelling and crushing and binding and breaking and burning of my heart
as I stared at what little moonlight filtered through the leaves,
The house around me, deafeningly quiet,
Like a living tomb that entraps me,
What restlessness is this,
And what is it's end?
This is a bit of a departure from my normal style but it felt right when I was writing it.
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