The gift

Fiction...

Can't sleep.

Every time I shut my eyes, I see her face. That smiling, beautiful face, with the dark hair and the gentle eyes.

She'll never know it, but she touched me with her words. They penetrated that enclosed portion of my soul, the side no one sees anymore. I won't let them see it.

She got through. I think it started somewhere after "Hello."

On restless nights I'll lie in the dark remembering her words, feeling the longing that comes with loneliness, wishing with all my soul I could just touch her. But I don't know how to love anymore. I gave that up years ago, somewhere between the heartache and insanity.

I'm against anything that eradicates passion. People who laugh at the emotional side of the soul are worse than worthless. They sit in their pious positions on high and do nothing but make me want to vomit, to violently throw up everything that is evil and rotten and vile.

I used to worry about such dregs; now I just don't give a damn. All I can hear is the music. Just the music.

There was music that night. I saw her across the room. I felt the long dormant feeling start somewhere between my blue eyes and jeans. It was me. It was her. It was those pretty eyes.

Here tonight I remember the warmth of the moment and it feeds my wounded mind. I believe for a moment that life is still out there somewhere, something to be latched onto, something to be experienced as fast as the train can rumble down the track.

I dread the morning and the routine and the pettiness. I wish forever it's that night, the music, her words, that voice and those eyes.

She's given me a gift I can never repay. If that isn't enough, at least it's something.