Sit down, put your arms out, and lean your head back. Your neck rests on the black leather of the couch, and warm sunlight only comes in if you open the windows. Marble angels watch over you, and the lights can stay low. While you're sleeping, I can't imagine that you're dreaming at all. I took photos of the curtains, and waited for what seemed like hours for you to wake up. I couldn't sleep at all, just sitting under the lights. I've dreamed of this moments we've had. Every interpretation is simplistic, an expectation that you can find some whole in something so thin. Even the thinnest knives can cut deeply. Dreams that love can be the solution, that I'll find everything here, no, everything there. Maybe next time everything will be perfect. I'll stop burning inside, I'll stop wanting everything to change. I'll be happy, I won't need anything. But I keep wavering, esurient and waiting. You search for love, all you need is love, and all you have are memories.
Suddenly looking out over the cliffs of a coast, sunglasses and a car by the side of the road, the ocean doesn't end. The sun burns my face, dust on the gravel road seems to move in the breeze, and the face of the ocean seems as a blue plate. I swam above the hairpin bends, and waited on the floating platform. I knew you'd show up. You were even early. My hair was more grey, and your college days made you look happy. I smiled hearing all about your days with friends, reading these books you passed me over the cafe table, remembering the smell of the pages from our home library. You mentioned it too. I know you've grown up to be the same as me, and we only smile, and see it in our eyes. Outside, the shuffling plates and silverware are only background noise. Birds are nearby, staying shaded in the trees. They're always singing the same song.
Two stories by Will Long, October 2018
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