Outstretched Hands: Realities aren't what they used to be...

Sunlight, reflected off hardwood, stabs into my eyes.  Pull the sheets.  Blot it out.  Too late.  I feel the lonesome tug of longing for the days when the sunlight meant something.  When it isn't just a brilliant, shiny lie.  One used to gloss over the reality of our frozen wasteland.  Hibernating souls.  But not mine.



No.  My warring sides give me no rest.  The one welcomes it.  Happy the world reflects her sorrow.  Cold.  Desolate.  Unforgiving.  Pleased to share the suffering.  Sick.  Twisted.  Joyous.

The other rages silently.  Blinking back tears, refusing to acknowledge the muzzle on her mouth.  Pleading eyes at the distant sun, and at a land thousands of miles away.  I miss you.  Holding onto the remnants of tinkling laughter, a warm breeze through the air, and love.



The latter's thoughts shattered by the cruel backhand of reality from the former.  -That's not your life, and it never was.  You only got to borrow it for a bit.  This is where we are now.  Get the fuck used to it.-

Muffled sobs.

-Let go the romanticized visions of what we lost.  Today we carry each other.-

  

cold embraces, halves to wholes, resigned but solid.