|Deviant Login||Shop||Join deviantART for FREE||Take the Tour|
Watching her fade awayIm tired, she said. We were sitting in front of each other on the floor. Her eyes looked empty, staring into the air, seemingly at nothing.
I know , I whispered.. I understand.
No, she said simply, you dont.
She was right.
I watched the scars, the burns and the fresh wounds on her arms. Fascinated, somehow, by the destructive powers buried within this girl I once knew. I closed my eyes, and rested my forehead against hers. I could hear her heart beat the same slow rhythm as mine. My hands reached out, meeting hers, marvelled by how cold they were. We opened our eyes at the same time, tears falling down our faces.
The girl in the mirror took a deep breath, and so did I. Knowing there was nothing I could do, but to watch her fade away
WaveSitting in the windowpane, staring down at the people walking by in the street, I pulled my legs up under me and leaned my head against the cool glass. Jim Morrison on the stereo, singing Hello, I love you, wont you tell me your name.
Deirdre, I whispered, Deirdre is my name.
It was Corals second suicide attempt. The first one was still fresh in our minds when we again got the call from the hospital. Between them I would lay in bed for hours, on my back with my hands under my head, lights off, staring up at the ceiling, watching the shadows dance as cars passed by underneath the window. I kept putting off buying curtains, and it never got completely dark. Sometimes I lit scented candles, and put them in the windowpane. The draft from the window, which had made white roses of frost on the inside of the glass during the coldest days of winter, made the shadows from the flames flicker unpredictably over the room, and spread through it the sm
Volpi.You will find that the story you tell
is very rarely your own. In Lucca,
even the smallest pebbles
breathe in the warm sunlight.
Knotted stones and cobbled roads
beat out a paper-dry heartbeat heat
my city breathes in and out,
inhales sparrow air.
It's writing a story.
You are the pen.
You will find that in Lucca
the daisy chains forge fire
in side streets and back alleys.
Teenagers intertwine. Tell me,
odd flower, are you still closed?
Here we are colored wax;
the heat of the city melts us.
We run into each other, rhapsody
of pigments. Operas are our specialties.
Open up; feel the reds.
If not, try and see them. There is a place
of deep knife marks, a street
long as midnight
you may learn something there.
Valentina's voice glimmers like red wine.
You may enjoy intoxications. Still,
know alcohol has no story
and will swallow your own.
Find the sign with the wolf on it.
You'll know the place. Epiphanies ring true as church-bells.
Lucca still guides the wanderers
to well sp
Keep in Touch!