Pieces

actually i don’t know if i like the name of this piece…. uh just like the other one, i’m not sure this is the end or merely the beginning of a longer composition =\

any suggestions for titles?

Love, one word at a time.

One whisper, one breath. Inhale, exhale.


“Life is beautiful, isn’t it?” she asked. She always liked to ask these questions. It’s just like her to say these things and not mean it.

She sat in my chair; she always liked to sit in my chair. She would say it’s because my chair is big and comfortable, and just at the right height for her legs to hang over one armrest, and her neck to fall on the other.

“Isn’t it wonderful?” she asked.

She was holding a scissor with plastic red handles and rusty edges. Snap. She snipped off some of her dark brown, almost midnight locks, and held them out in her hand. She pursed her lips and blew at me; strands of hair struggled to keep in flight, but eventually all succumbed to the pull of gravity, and their fate.

“You are so silly,” she laughed. Her lips curled up a little, just the right amount between being too generous and too stingy. She always had a way about her; always knew how to walk the line perfectly, just perfectly.

“So what’s it going to be?” she asked. Her long, bare and white arm reached over and grabbed the amethyst ashtray. Her arm always conjured up images of fresh lotus roots, dainty and strong; beautiful, tasted awfully good too.

The bright orange end of her cigarette butt flickered in the tray, illuminating the light purple quartz; a markedly visible spark in a room filled with thick smoggy contemplation. I remembered that tray. I gave it to her for our first anniversary.

She kicked the armrest.

I looked at her.

She threw the ashtray to her right. It hit the glass door that we picked out together. A splatter of a million little pieces twinkled and pirouetted on the hardwood floor.

I slouched and sank further still.

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Pieces

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