• The Fifth Season I Live

    by  • July 6, 2017 • * Safe for Work *, To You • 7 Comments

    I looked at you with an ability, a sixth sense, to see something, someone, who may or may not have really been there. Because who’s to say what they see is real? Who’s to say what you feel is real? You don’t expect everyone to find pleasure in what you can.

    I should’ve seen you the way everyone else did. And I wish I could’ve. But truth be told I don’t know what they saw when they looked at you. If they saw power and felt little pricks of stardust splattering it’s way onto their spine.

    They couldn’t have, not like me. Because they never wore the gold sparks on their face like trophies no one else would ever be able to win.

    They didn’t shoot up into the galaxies by just the swirl of your fingertip onto their skin. They didn’t inhale darkness from your favorite pipe into a downward falling pirouette every time you turned a blind eye to them.

    They didn’t see you in dreams years after you made your exit. The hysteric laughter, your clicking heels down the hallway of their being pounding it’s way into their temples, the doors closing silently behind you. When you thought it would be the loudest crash, for your entrance had been excruciatingly loud. But your departure stayed silent. My favorite dance, in your steps, as to kiss me goodbye.

    With your fingertips becoming seemingly crafted for my demise, engraving everything into me so it can never go. That you can be gone. But that I just won’t have you to everyday inject something else, marveling at your doing, the effects you could have. The reaction you could make happen just by breathing.

    The way the music played in a beautiful language that I could only just partially understand. For sometimes there were parts of my language. And I sit back. Thinking about how well that works. I never understood what was happening. I could only sometimes make out the words, like I get it but I don’t.

    Then you had me wishing my lemon water was something stronger. And she laughs, says doesn’t this remind you of theme park music. I never liked theme parks and she knew it. I never liked how loud it felt. It isn’t a good memory. It isn’t a good time.

    Testing my memory, my experiences. My loves, my dislikes. All of it. But you could make me love or hate anything. You could make my head become something else entirely, anything you were, anywhere you were, I was drawn to like it was mine. But it was the arts you so loved. The strong, unbreakable presence you had. Pulling me into the world you knew I always belonged in, a string at my neck, pulling my face to yours.

    Your nails sinking into my arms, positioning them in your right way. Never being able to stand strong underneath your touch. I would be taken somewhere else. The room would be splattered with paint, ocean water rising up from underneath my feet. Seeing colors that no one else was seeing. Falling the way no else had fell. Seeing you. Falling into you. Your arms having the ability to catch me like no one else did.

    Maybe one day I won’t need to look over when I know you’re there, leaning back into my seat. Breathing in and out like inhaling a drug, any remnants of you in the air that I could feel again would never be wasted by me. I close my eyes. I want to look for you. But I feel the wind and I feel you again, I see it all again. Your fingertips grazing my cheek, pushing my hair behind my ear. Telling me sternly but in my soft spoken nature that I can do all things.

    Even without you? I whisper. But you’re gone, I remember.

    7 Responses to The Fifth Season I Live

    1. Tina
      July 6, 2017 at 5:59 pm


    2. Cindy
      July 7, 2017 at 12:50 pm

      I think this is the most beautiful prose I ever read.

    3. pirouette
      July 7, 2017 at 6:18 pm

      It’s a ‘quality’ word.

      Your words are the most intriguing of this of this barren place.

      Complex, mysterious. Bipolar, without shame. They illustrate a shattered mirror, in which I catch fragmented reflections of myself.

      They draw me in every time and water my soul…

      With saltwater, intensifying the thirst.

    4. A Scientist
      July 8, 2017 at 2:55 pm

      This was such a pleasure to read.

    5. Who penned this
      July 10, 2017 at 11:55 am

      Could the letter’s author be A. Mused ?

      • Redaura
        July 16, 2017 at 1:43 am

        No, I go by Red Aura, and don’t leave signatures. 🙂

    6. :)
      July 12, 2017 at 10:51 pm


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