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Literature Text
She flutters her fingers over her skin, she smiles as she thinks of him. He only touched her once, and it was when she brushed up against him on the train. She smiles as she remembers the way he muttered an apology. Her heart feels light as her memories play though her mind, changing bit by bit as they pass through.
Please don't leave me.
She rides the train on Tuesday afternoons, because she ran into him once, several Tuesdays ago. She waits patiently at the station, hoping, praying that he will see him. She has the lines worked out in her head, hoping she will have the occasion to use them. She rides the bus day in, day out sitting in the same seat.
Don't leave me—ever.
She sits in her drab little office doing the same mundane tasks every single day. When she allows her mind to wander off, she thinks of him at his own job. He's probably a curator at a museum or something exciting like that. She refrains from doodling his name all over her folder like a thirteen-year-old.
Besides she doesn't even know his name.
You can't leave me.
Please don't leave me.
She rides the train on Tuesday afternoons, because she ran into him once, several Tuesdays ago. She waits patiently at the station, hoping, praying that he will see him. She has the lines worked out in her head, hoping she will have the occasion to use them. She rides the bus day in, day out sitting in the same seat.
Don't leave me—ever.
She sits in her drab little office doing the same mundane tasks every single day. When she allows her mind to wander off, she thinks of him at his own job. He's probably a curator at a museum or something exciting like that. She refrains from doodling his name all over her folder like a thirteen-year-old.
Besides she doesn't even know his name.
You can't leave me.
Literature
Oh, the Irony
"You don't know anything!"
"I know."
Literature
don't look back - oh.
before the
before, face it,
there were faces indelible,
the viscosity of
tar in his voice...
tar on his coarse fingers;
like everywhere
in everything
there was the sacred drunkard illuminating
a way...
when i hid by the bucket and
nettle brushed my shoulder, the poison
was slow;
(in reality, he
ran his cows over with a tractor and there
the sacredness should have ended;
didn't;
before the before there was gnarled bark
off unidentified trees
whispering by the river,
rough to the touch
i would spread out my fingers
fascinated by the splinters
now it is morning and i re
Literature
.
i avoid the eyes of people when i'm nervous
stare at spaces in between their eyelids
and let the conversation fade
or dissolve.
i don't know where to let my eyes rest
when you appear
in my head
around my bones
there's nowhere to look
except through you
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I don't really know what to think of this. The premise was that I wanted a character who was obsessive to the point of insanity and I think she has been created.
Of course, she doesn't have a name and she rides public transportation all day long.
Some day I will stop being so predictable.
Of course, she doesn't have a name and she rides public transportation all day long.
Some day I will stop being so predictable.
© 2012 - 2024 xthe-eleanorx
Comments13
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i was at the phone with a friend and imediately after i read the first part of the description, she said (without knowing the text) that maybe you talk about me.....hehe
anyway, this is awesome.
anyway, this is awesome.