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My sketchy story

CorporateWhoreCorporateWhore Posts: 1,890
edited January 2007 in Poetry, Prose, Music & Art
When it comes to flowers, she had them nailed to the tee. Her hair was messy while she walked next to me on the shore, but Mary didn't put much thought into her wayward locks. Flower sales were her specialty, and that's why I could only get her to come out every other Sunday morning. While I stared at her with that expressionless, gawking demeanor, she kept the tune of our song alive, flicking sand and water and offering up anecdotes of grouchy customers. It wasn't that I was especially interested in pansies, but that her interest made me want to grow them the rest of my life.

I remember those days very well, and if I could just remember what those feelings had in store, I would be very rich indeed. Mary's flowers never earned her a single penny on the street, but she amassed a treasure chest in my bumbling heart. If I see her again, I'll be carrying a fist full of pansies with a mind to do what I wish I had.

Missed opportunities are highlighted in red with a big splotchy "F" when I look at my history. She'd like how I turned out though, and maybe she would have given me a second chance if I hadn't slit her throat.

I guess we make our own beds.
All I know is that to see, and not to speak, would be the great betrayal.
-Enoch Powell
Post edited by Unknown User on

Comments

  • justamjustam Posts: 21,412
    I guess the obvious question is "Why did you slit her throat?" :)
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  • CorporateWhoreCorporateWhore Posts: 1,890
    justam wrote:
    I guess the obvious question is "Why did you slit her throat?" :)

    Good question!

    You know that feeling when you screw things up for yourself?

    I guess it's that 10x. :[
    All I know is that to see, and not to speak, would be the great betrayal.
    -Enoch Powell
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