i knew the pathway like the back of my hand

One last thing before I disappear.


I BAWLED, OKAY?




-Luna

Melancholy

Because it always goes along the lines of this.

I end up alone in the summer heat when it's quiet outside, and the only things I can hear are the wind and curls of music from the radio, still working somehow in the sweltering weather. 

Sometimes, I feel like turning around to talk to you, words skidding, slipping, before I can hold them back, searching, and I realize that you aren't there. None of you. And, yes, you guys are a phone call, an email, away.

But that's. too. freaking. far.

Maybe that's a bit weird. Because it's three months, only three months. You're gonna be there again, when we're all a year older and wiser and  ready to take on the world again, or at least school, but that's even worse, isn't it.

But, for now, this is what I do.

I hang onto Facebook posts, emails, treating each one like something, something more than just little bits and pieces thrown out at attemps of building bridges through the swirls of sun, and the wisps of fireworks late at night, the sweet of watermelon and the sour of barbeque smoke, smell of chlorine and the bright of far, exotic places that I hope you had fun in, but it's back in school, around that crazy lunch table of ours that I'd like you to be at.

Yeah, so. Miss y'all, but I hope you're having a great summer. :)

HERE. HAVE THIS.

This is real short post, partly because I'm half-asleep, you know, as people are at midnight, and partly because I'm horrible at following through on things, and I just can't be bothered. Mmhmm.

Here's a quote from the lovely enjambament on Livejournal:

"Moon, pregnant, golden apple, and full, heavy in his eyes, and he howls, his own voice is joined inseparably, irrevocably with another, the wine dark night wraps around him, wind ruffled, summer sweet, and the blood of small things he drinks down, it is ambrosia. They will run this way forever, and the silver-grey fur of pack-mate shines bright like the pinpoint stars. The night is young and always theirs for the taking."

AND THAT. THAT IS HOW YOU WRITE WEREWOLVES, STEPHANIE MEYER. THERE IS NOTHING ABOUT HIS SHIRT. AT ALL.

Okay, that's about it. But, hey, who doesn't love Twilight bashing?

To make up for my lack of dedication, have pretty music. Just ignore the creepy little girl.




-Luna