The sky is the same,
but I am not.
I sometimes stumble upon
pieces of a former self,
startling in their simplicity.
All vivid memories
and sharp edges,
they remind me of your broken window.
But shattered never seemed like the right word
to describe the dissipation of myself.
No, nothing so dramatic,
nothing so stark and irreversible.
But, rather, a gradual cracking
as I learned how to stand still
while the rest of the world
ran itself blurry.
I hug my scarf close and my heavy winter jacket closer, but the cold still seems to burn right through to the heart of me. I never remembered it being this cold here, but then again, it's changed so much that I don't remember a lot of things about this place.
Who knew that winter could be so lonely?
I can see my breath in bitter clouds before me, fading into the air of the curving sky. The water laps up against the rocks as though it is trying to cure them of their hardness.
This is where I used to come to cry, to breathe, to write. But it doesn't hold the same kind of magic over me any more, and I mourn the loss of such a muse. I get back into the car, starting the engine and the heater, but can't seem to pull myself and my car away from the empy parking lot, where shadows gather, and I remain until my broken heart calls me home.