“I’m never gonna - “ she mumbled as her face crumpled to the floor
Never gonna
But she would,
And she would, not too longer after, walk through golden fields with arms outstretched,
Gently caressing each fraying frond
Face long forgotten.
I navigate what comes after,
Gingerly,
Leaving my rotted, sallow orchard to trudge back through the waving flora,
Cursing its easy, graphic joy
The way back lit not with gold but with the desperate protestations of the dying day
To wearily (greedily) pick up the face
Crumpled face
”Never gonna” face
Smooth it over mine for the journey
Wet with unnoticed tears which ooze out under blue-lined notebook paper, streaking the lines into a blueberry Rorschach
Never
Gonna