crimson coalmines

there was a lot about that past life that you didn’t understand. less still that you remember. it doesn’t come back the way you think it would, either, all flashes and waves and big scenery. you rarely catch the bright pictures or shadows left behind in the mirrors. 

instead, it’s all ripples.

they spread outward from the warm centre of the lake and feed into every tiny stream the days take you by, trickling into the present and giving life to the dried leaves near the heavy soil. they look up today but otherwise they stay quiet, sleeping in solitude, waiting for the sun to wash over them with something just a little stronger to drink.

it was the first time, you think, that someone had taken care of you without having a real reason to. small and tightly knotted and wrapped up safe near the crimson coals, black and red inseparable. sitting down slowly on the pavement in the wide unknown, waiting for the sun to arrive. endless moments spilling out onto the barren road you stand on today.

there’s other ways to read the story, if you want to read it wrong. broken vampires, chopsticks on a round table. a red sailor on a dark sea, their flimsy boat painted an early grey. severed lungs. say nothing of the vampires, and they’ll keep your secrets too. none of these are like the others. one isn’t real. one of them should never have been there at all. but what else would you call it when you lose your last pull towards the relentless air?

take the next turning at the green light and maybe you’ll find some truth. it all flows back to the same salted river from the place you once knew, no matter which path your faded shoes take you on. they say if you carry enough cups and a hell of a lot of bottle caps it should be enough to last a lifetime.

it should be enough. i think it could be. but truth be told, i never stopped to check.

[Image: a hall. Source: Dani Relbyn. Used with permission]