I get lost in the mountains and back, but I love the bizarreness of getting lost in between. The woods gently lull me into my sensual fantasies that you cannot give. The tall, lonely trees are the memories of my past I cannot share with you. Why is that when the sole reason we are here together is to break each other’s walls?
I start to fade from you and you let me. I buy the abandoned house at the foot of the mountain we used to love before I renovate it. It is still beautiful here, but with free bonuses such as rustles of the fearful trees, black thunders, and an isolated spot.
Every single day without you, I talk to myself—just to work my jaws, lips, and tongue. I will stand before the mirror and see the changes as seconds pass. I am aging and dying—regrets and ponderings shower upon me.
I miss you.
I wanted to be alone, but I lost myself along the way too. Somehow, I want us back. I kneel and pray to St. Anthony de Padua to help me find courage.
Somebody knocks on my door.
The rustling of trees begins.
Check out this week’s prompt:
Sunday Photo Fiction
WORD COUNT: 200
Thank you for reading this story. If you want to talk about random things with me, do not hesitate to reach me through my “Contact” page. All the best love, my dear.