I am loath to mention that you have somehow forgotten me. My humble abode, once so cozy and warm, has acquired a draft, and I dare say the dust has settled quite thickly upon your ribs. You would be ashamed to see it! My beatings(more) and poundings have failed to stir you, though Mr. Liver often complains of the noise (he has taken too heavily to the drink, the poor dear).
I know I have caused you some pains, but perhaps you can give me another chance. We had our good times-remember, with Mr. Valentine. I know he is not coming back, but perhaps we can go for a jog every once in a while. The Eyes do paint such a lovely picture of sunshine, and the Ears play the singing of birds so wonderfully. Oh, how I miss the beauty of small things.
I guess I'll just sit here, beating like a metronome in this hollow, gathering of dust you call a chest. Tis a shame to let me wither away so. Me, whom you once held dear. I'll call on the cobwebs for company now since it seems Mr. Liver has passed out again.
I bid you adieu, my lost friend, Mrs. Valentine. If you should ever care to visit I shall be waiting, just tug on those strings. You remember the ones.
Here is a little reminder just to say
That you are more than your corporeal self
You are made of stardust and oceans and lightning
One day your bones and flesh will be nothing but
Grass and trees and flowers
And when this world is gone you will onc(more)e again be
Shimmering cosmic dust floating through the heavens
And your life will go on after death
So take a deep breath and remember that
One day isn't much in the grand scheme of things
Soon you will just be faded memories and beautiful eulogies
Your soul will live on(less)
The dust falls on the road, tiny motes that cling to everything and unite as a messy, irritating whole. It refuses to leave, refuses to budge, digs itself deep into every fold of clothing and skin, coats your mouth, your lips, your eyelids.
The dust swirls in the wind(more) that brings no relief from a heatwave.
The dust carries with it tales from countries far-flung and far gone, distant in more ways than one.
It carries stories, scars, trials, hopes, dreams, fruition.
Spread far and wide, the dust regathers.
Settles to stay on your skin.
Across the aons, the centuries, the kilometres and millimetres, you can never truly say where it has been.
But you *can* say that it has been gathered in.
And it's here to stay.
That grimy irritating dust, that persistent, pervasive, enduring dust.
The dust that will not give up and will not give in.
It has gathered.
You have entered it's space.
And the dust has ganged up on you.
you put down the brush and the palette
when mother said 'starving artist' was not a title any daughter of hers would hold
and so you spent more time doodling on legal briefs than writing dissertations
smudging your way through law school the way you used to do o(more)n a canvas
and now ten years later you think you would have rather been hungry than miserable
impoverished over soulless
angry that the only true work of art in your house is not the diploma hanging in the study but the nursery paintings of the jungle
but dreams gather dust
and what mother didn't understand was that you didn't have to poor to be starving(less)
Masayoshi had been looking for - well, he'd forgotten now, he wasn't SNOOPING (heroes didn't snoop!), but he had opened one of the drawers in the closet and it was just sitting there, slid halfway down a pair of sneakers. It wasn't really hidden(more) - but it wasn't out in the open either.
He couldn't remember if Gotou told him whether or not he had gotten rid of the cell phone. He'd gotten a new one of course - a step forward, Masayoshi knew, he had shown off the phone to Masayoshi proudly, pleased with his new piece of tech - so why did he keep the old one?
Masayoshi knew why.
Clinging to the past like this wasn't healthy - and Gotou was very stubborn, too. It wasn't going to be a pleasant conversation to have - he'd yell, and Masayoshi would yell back - but maybe not. The phone was in a drawer now. He didn't text her like he used to ... once in the odd long while, when Gotou wanted to tell Masayoshi something but hadn't quite worked himself up to it he'd use the medium of 'his girlfriend said...'
He WAS healing, slowly.
She was so important to Gotou, Masayoshi couldn't expect him to drop her overnight. The phone didn't power on when he tried it, its battery dead ... another good sign. He wasn't keeping it charged. Masayoshi tucked the phone back where he had found it, and closed the drawer. Socks were in the next drawer up, that was what he had been originally looking for.
He wouldn't say anything, not yet. Gotou was handling his grief, old and heavy as it was - and he knew now that he had Masayoshi to lean on, if he wanted to.(less)