A Story I Never Finished

Outside, the clouds are overcast. They paint the sky with gloom to complement the gray of the city below. Faceless people scurry towards destinations that are lost in the pale fog, only the threads of their coats meeting, flirting, and separating with each other. Why do they all look down at their worn shoes as they walk? Why are their tongues still, words of warmth caught between their teeth? They are cold. Almost like a sponge they have taken the gray into themselves, felt hazy steel melt into their veins, heavy their hearts. They do not know the warmth they hold in the stitching of their words, their minds, the small lines on their palms that yearn to connect with another’s. They are lonely. The only presence they are used to feeling by their side every day is the cold shoulder of the world, and the even colder memories in their hearts.

Inside, the windows are all closed blocking out the heavy sighs. All the lights are off, throwing the world inside this small apartment into darkness. Pillows are scattered across the worn leather couch that has seated many lovers. The faded wood floor carries marks of high-heeled boots and moved furniture, and tiny plastic cars children rode like truckers. Newspapers, carrying the headline of a huge event that will soon be forgotten as new history is written over it, lay folded on the floor. A darkly stained wooden table made from the grainy hands of a young boy sits in the corner of the small room, its surface nearly invisible below the treasures of one’s life. Books old and new lay open with pages wrinkled and worn from years of telling their stories to all who wanted to hear. Notebooks lay open with letters to the future, letters from the past, all scribbled in a handwriting a man has traced over with his fingertips for years. A handwriting that has written itself into his memory and left indents on his heart. A hot coffee sits surrounded by a ring that will temporarily stain the table with it’s searing kiss. The smoke lofts up and up gingerly mingling.

The apartment is a shadow world with all the light blocked out, but there is still warmth. And if you look at one corner, you will see an opening in what should be a ceiling. A white ladder, old but sturdy, is a staircase to this haven. If you cautiously climb up, one foot above the other, you will see this hidden cove that is more like a nest. On one end is a small glass window slightly misty from the gray outside, and it is cracked open just a tiny bit. As the cries of the lonely hearts and the anger of the gray skies blow through the crack, instead of haunting those inside, it instead makes the curtains dance. Those thin, white cotton curtains with the lace detail twist and turn, tangling the other half in it’s rhythm. They are gentle and fluid, a dance of soft love. As the harsh gray of the sky filters through the glass, the curtains take the color in and transform it into a delicate shade of muted lavender. They are like the flowers that absorb the wrath of a thunderstorm in order to make themselves, and the world, beautiful.

Though the walls of the room are not tall, tiny golden lights are strung haphazardly, crisscrossing and tangling over one another. They are the special kind that twinkles to their own rhythm and send dancing fairies with golden warmth across the nest, giving it a heartbeat. Every inch of the floor is covered with piles of white and gray blankets and pillows that if you were tiny enough, could pretend they were snow piles you could jump into like you did every winter.

A man lies in these piles buried under clouds of white with his head in the lap of the woman who reads. His ashy hair is ruffled and sleep still lingers in the bags under his bright eyes. He watches the lights dance as the woman reads out loud, voice hoarse and dry but still passionate enough to send the man’s mind into a world beyond his own. She tells the story of an untamed thief and a lost prince who both fell in love with the girl with doe eyes that bloomed like a flower in the spring. They were friends, tied to each other by the cruel red ribbon of fate unknown to them. It was the thief the girl chose because she was too blind to notice the bleeding heart that was hidden by the shadows the prince wrapped himself in. He screamed to her through the violent winds that came from the gaping hole in his heart, but his voice was snatched away and she looked towards a brighter promise under the sky they shared. And it was this tragedy that consumed the prince, and he wore these wounds fresh for everyone to see as he painted that sky blood red.

Quite a tragic story, yes, and every word, syllable, breath, the woman released from her mouth painted this heartbreakingly beautiful story across the walls of the room, and the man’s heart bled with every drop of red the prince spilled. How awful must it be to feel that pain, to physically feel the sword of loss plunge into your heart? But even more horrible to wrap yourself in this darkness, and to freeze your life in it’s cold hands. The man had felt it once, this pain. He had watched her turn away and harshly rip the stitches of their love apart with her bare hands. His grief had poured out as hard as the torrential rains in the summer and he had fallen to his knees under the clouds and cried out her name, but it was this woman who read who had heard and came. He once thought he was lost in the haze of goodbye but he had looked up and seen the light behind her face, had felt the warmth in her voice. And like the curtains in the window made the gray sky beautiful, she had sifted his loss through her fingers tenderly, watching the grains of the past fall away, until all that was left was a new man in love.

He looked up to her now from her lap and saw times kiss on her face, saw her new wrinkles and spots, but to him she was ageless, beautiful. And she grazed her fingers through his once soft hair as she had many of times as he fell asleep. But it was then a gust of wind climbed strongly through the crack of the window and even the curtains could not contain it. And just like the woman’s voice had embodied the prince’s anguish and painted it across the walls, the anguish of the people’s hearts below blew in and stained the walls deep gray, sending the golden fairies’ dance into frenzy. Without hesitation the man rose, his muscles groaning, and crawled to close the window when something stopped him. Pressing his forehead to the cold window, he gazed down at the hidden faces below and watched. The woman, wondering about his hesitation, crawled over as well and pressed her forehead to the window and together they looked down at the cold world below.

Breath fogging up the glass the man asked, “Why do they all look down at their worn shoes as they walk?” He placed his hands on the window as if in an attempt to lift their heads for them. “Because they are lost in another time.” The woman responded. “They can not walk away from the memories, the heartbreak. Their tears have become too heavy too turn their heads up to the sun to dry. And maybe…they are afraid. Afraid that if they look up, all they will see is the back of the one who holds their heart walking away, or worse, the face of their desire lost of all affection.” “Why are their tongues still, words of warmth caught between their teeth?” “Because they are cold and they are heartbroken. Just as the prince, they have made their tongues heavy with the name of their lost one and they scream and they yell but even their desperation cannot be enough to recall lost love. The love they have lost is like a rose in the summer. Once the cold winds of Autumn come, it can not protect itself from withering, and soon the petals will fall until there is nothing left to salvage. The words they wished they could have said are stuck in their teeth, in their lungs, in every crevice of their body, suffocating them. Their hearts are bruised.”

(This is taken from my blog spacingemptydotcom.wordpress.com)