If she were made of moments and not atoms, she would be a beautiful kaleidoscope of all the pretty things they never said, and all of the times they were too afraid. If she were made of moments and not atoms, then her eyes would reflect the rivers and the sunsets, and her skin would burn in all the places they once touched. She would burn like galaxies burn, all fractured light and tangled stars, and the moments instead of atoms would string together a constellation that always drew out the lines of herface.
Because loving Cordis made her beautiful then.
“I think this will consume us,” she had said once, and it had. It dissolved them like acid. It stripped away the fat and the flesh. It ate up the moments that made them and turned them into bones and atoms. It consumed them. It ruined them. And it was her fault.
She should have staid gone.
She should have melted into those last few sunsets like wax into a candle. She should have lain between the petals in floral wallpapers, should have become a single star amongst a constellation - because she belongs in backgrounds. She should have staid gone – because she does not belong with the living, because she belongs among the murals, because she belongs in the skies, and along the edges of rivers. She belongs in the peripheral.
‘Because you cannot hurt anyone from the outer edges.’
She should have staid gone.
She should have.
But she has never done what she should do.
So, she walks into the meadow that has become a graveyard of sorts, because how do you turn your back on something that once made you feel alive? Because Cordis loved her like something that mattered. She loved her like artwork; she looked, and she touched, and she never thought about wallpaper or wax or backgrounds. Because.
If she were made of moments and not atoms this might have killed her.
Atoms live even if you don’t want too.
Atoms live even if your heart does not.
Atoms live even if all you are is bones.
spyndle
you are the prettiest thing that I will ever know