A hand is outstretched, it’s morning in the middle of nowhere.We swing back and forth, our hands pressed together, the sun beaming down on us, the brightness in our eyes. It is the middle of hope, the middle of something, the middle of magic that only happens when it is too dark or to hollow or too bright here.

We sat on the swings and dangled our feet, exchanging promises and hopes and loves and freedom. We danced in a moment that was fleeting before it began, gone before we could even capture it to memory.

Have there been others? We wonder.  We think and we pray and we hope that there have been others before us and others after us and something that matters that connects all of us. We hope.

We want and we wait and we suffer in the hopes that a hand will hold us forever and ever and make sure we are one with each other for the end of time. Rush, to the ends of the earth but not past your front door because knocking seems to apparent. Hold her hand closer while she struggles to move and beg her not to.

Have you ever seen something so beautiful that it kills you just a little everytime you look at it? That was her, daggers and diamonds cluttered up in her eyes when she said she didn’t love me I said it was fine because to be wanted sometimes by her was better than nobody at all right? Isn’t it?

I tried to get back to the moment in the dark and the bright and the sun but she wouldn’t sit with me anymore, she said I had swallowed her whole and she needed to be bright alone.

She needed to be bright alone.

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A Short Conversation is a collection of stories, thoughts, and general musing. I like to write like I'm slamming a door; loudly, and with purpose.

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