United Kingdom

semi on hiatus because i have decided i am no writer

Washington DC

September 23, 2017

    The sun sets pink on the sky in Washington DC, and although the birds have stopped singing (it's early evening, she should be home) there's still tunefulness and melody in the air so fresh that she can almost taste the stave.
    Thousands of miles away from him.
    The chatter is like idle fingertips on glossed keys; the brush of her feet against the stone is a cello, a loosening seventh to the laughter's incessant tonic. Heat has never kissed her skin like this. 
    Walking down these streets she sees his face in shop windows.
    There's peace in this place where everything is always moving. She could close her eyes, just briefly, and be swept into the concerto, the constant revolutions and beautiful discord. Draw into herself completely. Nobody has as much power as she has, then, leaning against Jefferson's beating marble heart whilst the sun sets over the city and casts one million fragments of magenta over the water, like roses growing over the planes of blue.
    His hands in her hair, around her throat. 
    She could become this place, she could become the unrepentant green paths or the mellow blossom spying on the Oval Office, or the artwork, all the artwork by all the people who could paint how she thought, with the colours that commanded her. There would be nothing but this exquisite wholesomeness, passion and power burst into a million purples and blues and reds; she can see them just beyond her eyes; her hands flex as though to grasp them.
    The tones of his voice touch the tentative melody of her.
    It's stronger now than ever before. Maybe if she closed her eyes it would consume her, she'd lift off from the ground. But from thousands of miles away his hand is still around her ankle. 
    Hold her down; it's not safe to fly at night. 
   To love a place is not to love a person. He's holding her down; she can feel his weight on the curve of her shoulders and neck; she's crippled under the pressure of him. Here, air caresses the turn of her fingertips and the light catches in her eyes and on her hair. Alone. The horizon winds out for miles and miles above the trees, an unassailable gradient of gold to grey to insuperable black. 


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  • September 23, 2017 - 6:52am (Now Viewing)

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1 Comment
  • BlueWriter

    Funny. I have a friend that lives there. Forever in my heart, buddy. GOOD WORK AUTHOR.

    over 3 years ago