/lit/ - Literature

>>12151296
Oh.

It's thundering now. The shadows have connected from all corners of the room. Soon they'll take up the whole ceiling, and I won't be able to tell where the shadows end and the rest of the darkness begins.

You know I can't even remember what the last thing she said to me was?

I already told you I'm starting to forget what she looks like. Sure, I can look at pictures of her online. Heck, I'm in some of them. But pictures don't show what someone really looks like. A picture is a single micro-second frozen in time. It doesn't have the persons essence.
The way a person stands when they're nervous, or energetic, or contemplative. The way their nose wrinkles when they laugh. How their eyes go big when they're surprised. The small delicate movements of their fingers.

I'll tell you, I've never been attracted to someone hands before this. I mean, I cant even say I'd ever thought about there being beauty in a person's hands. But hers? There was an elegance about them. Long, gentle, almost delicate, fingers.
The kind you expect to see playing a harp or piano.

I remember she'd write in her journal, taking notes or scribbling out little sketches, and watching her hands move was almost magical.

She made the mundane into art. That was her in so many ways.
A catalyst of loveliness.
Too kind hearted to keep it to herself. As a flower can't help but bloom and spread its color with the world, neither could she help but to show her beauty to the world. It would flow through her, changing what was around her.

Her beauty was not the flashing flame of a campfire - flaring itself out to be noticed by others...it was an ember.
Her beauty was warm. Others drawn in by her warmth, who can stay away?
It was steady.
It was preserving, long lasting.
Her beauty touched other things and made them glow too.

The only thing I fully remember of her is her laugh. What a thing it was. So full and wild and free. The laughter of running through a field of violets. The laughter of freshly chopped wood becoming covered in flakes of powdery snow...No, it was the snow itself. It was a glass of dark red wine. It was a gentle brook. A rushing river. A candle at dusk, still burning through dawn. It was all of this, and it was none of it at all.

The rain has come at last now too.
It taps upon the window, and comes down in sheets against the roof tiles. It acts as a sort of buffer, creating a bunker of quiet darkness that I'm now in.

Night has fallen and with the storm, no stars or moon are out to light the sky.
It is comforting, draped in this darkness, fully enveloped by rain, but it is lonely.

And I am alone.