A little voice entered my head today.
Quiet whispers drew forth the story of a past lover, of the man in that little green house.
.
I was in love (or deep in a well of infatuation)
This man, this man trapped in time, had been the object of my attention for over a year and finally, he had seen me.
I remember the rush, the thrill, the absolute passion. Sinking into every day filled with the purest of joy and excitement. I recall the softness, the intensity; embracing a sense of wonder that was so exhilarating, so fulfilling.
I hear an echo of those memories in these moments here with you.
.
I am afraid.
I am afraid of walking down paths I have tread before, of committing myself to roads that lead to ruin. I know that you are not the same as those specters that haunt me, but still I wonder if you too will become a ghost someday. I wonder if your beautiful hands might become apparitions that lurk in my periphery, reminding me of love lost.
.
My fire burned so fiercely with that man frozen in time; but alas, his ice slowly grew and coated every last bit of our flame in crystals devoid of heat. I was left empty, shivering, and desperate for warmth. I was digging through a snowy field searching for a summer lost to the seasons, never to be seen again.
.
The man trapped in time remained where I left him, buried in that snowy field. I heard from another that he had melted once more, but heard again that the snow reclaimed him.
.
Memories of another time, whispers from a grave.
(Some nights I hear your cello, echoing through that little green house. I hope you find solace in its melody still.)
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Extraordinarily Ordinary 