If I collected all the texts I wrote to you but didn’t send,
A novel would come to life.
Sometimes the urge to write when you cross my mind is stronger than the urge to talk to you…
Do you even exist outside of my words and beyond my lines? I might never discover, and these words shall never be said. But here, I am sending you a post card, I hope it arrives in time.
via Daily Prompt: Conveyor
The years. The dust. The shadow. Not seen a single ray of sunlight for decades and hidden behind sacks of unread book piles. The closet covered in pale wall papers. Pale rosy wall papers.
It enters your nostrils and crosses through your throat to reach your stomach and you can taste the odour. It is sour and sharp.
You immediately hate every inch of it.
First you have to hate it.
The fingers, the touch, the blouse, the smell of the wooden closet which hasn’t been opened for years. It’s a place where things are kept secret behind the doors, or maybe it’s an elephant in the room.
Outside of these rosy wallpapers opens a flower. It ripens as It’s petals open widely in front of the cool breeze it receives, shivering every inch of the body. The petals are caressed and carefully stroked to be fully watered in a matter of seconds. It grows in glamour ready to be picked. It releases its finest smell and covers all the surrounding dusts with its aromatic enchantment. Its time has come.
You love it.
You cannot not love it.