Sunday, July 5, 2009

On Eleanor Rigby and Other Things

Sadness that was terrifyingly overwhelming. And then... Keith? God has an absolutely amazing sense of humor. I just had to laugh, all the way down the hill, through disgustingly muggy air, to my sandy empty beach. Leaning against a sun soaked cement wall, wind spitting sand onto my page, while the shore shortens, surf crashing ever closer.

All the lonely people; where do they all come from?

These clouds are a joke, promising nothing but an obscured view of Mt. Baker. The light breeze cools my reddened cheeks, though.

I wish someone with a particular crooked smile could be in the sand right beside me, squinting across the Sound.

Time for a relocation.

Another beach, a sun bleached log behind my back, another pound of sand in these shoes. A more persistent wind, drying contacts, drying sweat. Such a depressingly empty day.

Pen cap tracing patterns in such warm sand. Words are scarce, like raindrops: painfully missed, like that all too familiar smell drifting through my open window, carried by the laundry room vent, forcing my neck to crack with the speed my head turns, finding a distressing no one in the empty welcoming door frame.

Pen cap moves to tracing words, fearlessly bold statements because of their short lifespan. One strong gust of wind and... yes, they're gone.

Pages bent and blown, hair flung back, sand cascading in the breeze. The tide is tauntingly ever creeping closer. The ferry wake utterly destroys sand creations; screams of protest echoing over the surface of the water.

Death Cab lyrics echo through my head; fingers twitch for the keys to accompany the familiar melody.

The spray is close enough to splash onto my skin, cooling the suffocating air.

More traced words. More sentiments blown away.

Close your eyes against the assaulting sand; take a walk to clear your head.

These lazy, empty, wordless days.

How can you go for days without speaking?
How can you not?
These words are not to be wasted.

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