There was nothing as chronically inevitable as this in her life; parting away from this city, roads, trees, the early morning breeze and the cotton candy knitted evening orange skies – it was strong, the sorrow. But losing that sweet touch, that gentle warmth, heart was trembling. She couldn’t allow herself to speak or write about it but with the disgruntled fragments of her soul, she couldn’t do anything than just picking a diary and giving it the drying ink. There was a lot more crawling in the layers of her inside, this city was her secret-keeper.
Laughters which were still shining over the hilltops, the streetcorners of carefree smiles, the lawn of her old farm house, that fragile pathway, the blinking lamp, the cheerful milkman, her heart was caged in this air and the call of going was repeated, let the gentle hand tremble in its uncertainty.
Idling away life along the river bank was pinching, her sparkling eyes dulled, the little steps were taking her far away. This was difficult, her voice was shaking. It wasn’t to be taken along the chest, her blood could pop out. The perpetually sitting clouds with in the horizon were sneaking down, how silent.
Home was not the place, it was a person; him.
A touch felt,
every time familiar –
greeting and a parting;
life was a tragedy.