149 words - Reverence
She stands above me, the figure of my happiness, hands stashed among the snug linen in her pockets, feet moving restlessly with the abundant leaves. I stare at her boots and try not to blink, try not to breathe.
"Just tell me how to make you happy."
She waits patiently, angrily, as if the answer should be so easy, as if it weren't impossible and futile and spoken through rigid tones of rage, hurt, professionalism.
Her sigh reverberates through the hollowed confines of my thoughts and pushes all attempts of response away.
"Maybe I was wrong. Maybe I can't make you happy. Maybe nobody can."
She walks away from me, the figure of my happiness, hands clutched around the linen in her pockets, feet moving noisily along the abundant sidewalk. I stare at her boots and wish she'd left me with enough breath to call her back to me.
110 words - Disjointed
I have no excuse for this one. It was the first one I wrote, and that happened at 8 p.m. So apologies beforehand.
The truth shines painfully through the moisture in her eyes and she knows without knowing, hurts for her without being able to hold her, shakes without being aware of a loss of stability. The sharp pain stuns her into a silence, a silence that that hears only the quieted moans protruding from the back of her own throat. She struggles for understanding in the darkness of their arrival.
Your funeral's tomorrow...
Her own words, and her body burns as if saying them has peeled the skin from her bones and plucked her joints from their sockets.
She looks at her and watches the dust fall onto her jacket.
65 words - Eventually
She closes her eyes, body trembling, breath unsteady and white in the cool morning air. For a moment she is warm and able to convince herself of your presence. For a moment, she can pretend her hand is your hand, can feel the softness of your hair against her stomach. She keeps her eyes closed and allows the sensation of empty happiness to overwhelm her.