Little Bullets

Image

A song that crushes the soul reaches from the speakers like unfurling hands. It extends toward your sternum, tears through flesh, to the meat of it. It is a song of sorrow and the words kill as they permeate flesh and cartilage. There is nothing more intimate than this, no time you are more vulnerable. You submit to the melancholy of the melody and let go.

 She remembered the first time he socked an inanimate object instead of her face and all she saw was splintering wood; funny how memory works. Mahogany stuck in splintered fragments in her heart and brain matter, embedded in memory. This is when she started dreaming only of the present; the now is less elusive than past or future.

 He read her like he read a book. It was the subtle reading between the lines where all the truths are hidden. Not concise, black, and white—the untold. To him, her story was beautiful. 

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: