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shorteternity

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Wind catches hair, swirling blonde around thoughts of hopelessness.  Mixing dirt within both-physical maskings and spiritual longings.  She doesn't cry, she's been done with crying for too long to start again. So the boy left. She always new he would. That foreknowledge inbedded deep inside her, a "gut feeling". 

She still prays for him, after all these years, asking God to keep him safe, now that she is no longer watching over him.  To go on with routine is pointless when you're powerless. She doesn't carry on, she waits, hollow and empty. She waits for a finality. Either death to finally catch on or something to force her to care.  In limbo-not selfish enough to take her own life, not willful enough to get it back.

She doesn't know where she is, nor does anyone else. But I do. She's in her own coma of blame and regret. Not wanting to surface and just forget him. She's still holding on. Wants to get over him, but not willing to go thru the pain. Even though it'd be the final agony. And if she'd let herself get hurt again, it wouldn't be near as bad.

But, no she sits, and she waits, for her finality.