Instead, here you are, a lone figure pacing the length of these long windows in the failing light. Here you are, somewhat gaunt, with your dark eyes wide, and your strong jaw set - cheeks rather flushed at the thought of her, just like the boy you have always been. Yet, there is a difference in your stride as well as your bearing, that marks you as a man. It may have been the distance and the determination that has hardened you since you were seventeen. Perhaps your carelessly exquisite grace is a product of taking that job down on the docks after she stepped onto the last ship to leave the harbor that August.

You were no sailor. The towns' weathered seamen had kept their mouths shut on the subject, but even with your body hard at work, those weary eyes could see that your soul was on the water, and your mind was on the intangible. Eventually your body simply rested on an auto-setting - where swift, fluid movement merely became second nature (as it was left to fend for itself, and it regularly expected your mind to be away). The outside world knew upon a glance that you had been already lost to the lures of the sea, or more accurately, what lie across it.

This morning, when the rain had begun its' gentle, incessant thrum upon the rooftop and slurred the sunlight into a haze, you only objected softly as you tucked yourself further into your pillow. It had not occurred to you then that this was the precise date which you had been waiting to arrive for the last  87, 658, 1277hours of your life. So, the day began just like any other, with a steaming thermos of coffee and a walk through the weaving trails of beaten dust behind your home. Your wandering feet didn't slow to a halt until you had come as far as the sloping banks of the lakeside. The lushness had startled you. The thick green expanse, rushing down to meet the curve of the shore, this landscape was one you had forsaken upon the the turn of this season each year because it only served to make you acutely aware of your loss, of her.

 Now, with the wide oaks and swaying poplars both alight with the hue of burnt copper, her eyes were your only consistent thought. The sweep of her eyes over the bowl of skies above as she surveyed the clouds that summer that had faded into fall, the yearning which had filled them as she had pressed the letter into your open palm, these fleeting impressions that had been etched into your memory were yours alone to hold. The date had startled you. Standing there, beneath the layered limbs of ancient trees, it didn't seem possible that it had been ten years since you had sprawled out underneath them and made mention of the future as if it were only a passing thought. It was then that you had propelled yourself into motion and began gaining ground on your way back to the house, where the letter awaited you.

A heavy sigh weighs itself evenly upon your chest, as you trace the envelope with your gaze. You settle yourself into one of the high-back chairs in your dining room, at the head of the table, but the austere atmosphere doesn't feel right. In fact, it feels all wrong. This is not how you want to remember reading her soul. Because essentially, that is what the envelope contains, of this much you are aware. You imagine that reading a soul which has been laid bear is an achingly sweet task of its' own accord, but to read hers - is doubly so. If you had it your way, you might read the letter in the cabin of a ship, or in your car on a deserted interstate somewhere in Nevada. You would read it in an enclosed space, somewhere personal where you could bottle the feeling and time might stand still, but once you had stepped outside of that enclosed space, you would be somewhere vast. Your darkened dining room is the furthest from matching this description, so you settle for your bedroom instead.

Once you have closed the door behind you, you lay your index finger under the edge of a crease and tear into something precious.

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"Collab - add your own continuation to this story, though please number your thread so we know which part follows on from which. The beginning, the part I wrote, is THREAD 1, and so on.

Enjoy. :)"

updated May 24 '11 by scampii091