Sometimes it feels like the only aspect I have control over are my words. When I write it's an expression of myself many others have not seen. I want people to be able to see it. I'm hoping to find a community to share my words with.
She's The One
His fingers danced across the keys of the bar piano. The dust rose and fell in the rising sun. His mind clouded with thoughts of the strawberry blonde who sat at a table under the fading picture of the Eiffel Tower. The paint had begun to chip away and flack onto the bar floor.
The night sky glitters around him, as Moon drifts in and out of consciousness. His tired eyes fall prey to heavy lids, waiting for sleep to take over. Suddenly, a vibrant light flashes before his lids, and his tired orbs open wide to see the most brilliant sight surrounded by a soft glow of light.
Beating swallow wings and chirps, scraping chairs and chiming bells, children laughing and dogs barking. I understand this language. It’s the language of home. Then there is the smooth Italian tongue that hums beneath the rest. Like a crescendoing bass, it settles in the back of my mind, tightening my core to a clenching panic that if I look around I'm not really home. But what is home? A place to lay one’s head, a place where one’s family is, a place where one’s clothes are kept in dusty drawers and on cheap hangers, a place where one knows the language?