I drove home with the dawn, the rising sun in my eyes, last night’s dress stiff against the leather seats. Halfway through the party you’d gotten a call and left to go somewhere, to meet someone. I’d stayed, maybe to prove a point.
I didn’t know if you’d be home. Now you talked to me or didn’t according to a logic only you knew. Maybe it was because I’d asked the wrong question or sent you a text with a photo of a bridge when you were in the mood for a horse. Once it had seemed so important to understand. With each repetition of the cycle I forced myself to care a little less.
I popped the cork from the bottle and felt a dull ache where I figured my heart must still be, buried under years of scar-tissue. I jumped up on the counter, sipped my first glass of the long night, gazed out over the yard.
The house felt empty but you’d become like a ghost so it was hard to tell.
-Visionaria
(via dreamsinthyme)
Posted 1 month ago with 222 notesget stopped dead...tracks, this picture was one...imagine...