On the winter beach

She screws up the letters he had written her, page by single page. Burning them would still feel too final, the ash too easy to smooth between fingertips. She imagines the powder-grey prints she would leave on the banister.

So crushing the letters is the best course of action. The only way. One by one she drops the pieces of paper and the wind sends them skirling across the winter beach.

She feels bad, of course she does. If the world were normal, she would never drop what in a normal world is litter. But the world is not normal, not now.

One page is caught in the dip before the rocks; others are held in the frothing shallow water. A single tear would be appropriate – the thought surprises her and she almost smiles. Then the smile fades from her eyes and she feels the chill on her neck.

She drops the last page and watches it skitter. The last one. Gone. She turns and walks away, into the wind.

Some years later, she returns with a dog and children. Of course there is no sign of his letters. No sign. Of course.

Let us walk through the old city alleys

Let us walk through the old city alleys and tell each other stories of how our lives have been, stories of the heart and head, of what was and what might never have been.

And no regrets, no, no regrets. It wasn’t and it wasn’t and that is how it was. No regrets, no tears, red sunsets beautiful as the rising sun, the summer noon has been and gone and now you hold my hand.

White wall old city alleys, we stop and look up and smell the dust and smile at the swallows in the line of blue. Hands softly tighten, fingers lock gentle.

And the stories we are telling we shall tell forever.

Ring, ring

Ring, ring. Stevie wasn’t thinking about the money any more; he’d even stopped fretting how such a good idea could have gone so bad. He was meant to be away somewhere, just him and Marcie. Ring, ring.

Not hung up on a meat hook wanting it all to stop.

Ring, ring. He was dying to hear that old-school tone on his phone again but there was silence. Five minutes until the man came back. And then nothing. Ring, ring.

http://www.paragraphplanet.com 06 November 2013

I should have regretted less

I should have written a love letter, I should have written a love song. I should have said how my heart broke of happiness, how it sang with a song of a knife on crystal glass and then broke.

I should have done more; I should have regretted less. I should have said what I thought, said what I saw, the fireworks shooting and the stars falling across the sky, the colours when I closed my eyes and was elsewhere.

I should have gloried in the weathers, the snow that was you, the rain that was you, the low dark clouds that would split and break and split away to show the blue light shining through.

I should have been less thoughtless, I should have done more and regretted less.

So I decided.