FicWad

I love the word creosote, iz purdy here's a chap. Sleep NOWWWWWWWWW!
R&R ifyou have time in this busy world

Walking the tracks at night was still new to me in the pitch black of early morning Belleville. As The grove became visible through the the thick fog, I veered from the tracks and skidded down the the gravels slope. The chunks of limestone called to me as they scraped and toppled chasing my heels.

The notes of of golden guitar vanish as soon as I appear, for a moment I’m sure that I've imagined them. The moon is insignificant in the sky, waning out of a crescent, but even in the dim, the sakura branches are iridescent. I can make out her shape. She is sitting against a tree. Her hair is dark and short but not too short, I imagine it frames her face in curls. She’s tiny against the wide based acoustic. I walk closer, and sit directly in front of her.

We are a painting of shadows, in deep creosote oil against canvas.

I can’t tell when a song ends, she just plays an endless array of chords. I stare at her hands flashing against the fret-board, her nails are painted red and black, perfect. When she hands me the guitar, I don’t know what to do, but then I remember her song. I begin to strum. In the beginning there is too much Em, but I switch to a cross between G and C.


We hold in our hearts the sword and the faith....

When I finish I open my eyes, not realizing I had them closed. The petals of the great tree we lie under twinkle and drift to us. “Why won’t you speak?” I ask her ,softly. In the quiet of the night the ambience is bleak . In return she lifts the guitar from my lap setting it gently in it case. She sits close to me and takes my hands.

She is an entity, a planet, to revolve around.

She takes my cold hands into her gravitational own, pressing a zippo between us. The metal is tepid and smooth from her warm hands.I am lost in this small touch and for the first time since Mikey left, I am truly happy with another human being. She is guiding my hand, fingers poised over the trigger, raising it to our faces.

This is the moment where I will see her.

She is obviously not the girl in the portrait though she seems familiar some how. I flick the wheel and a spark shoots out igniting the wick and casting both of us in a warm glow.

She is the boy with the patches.

Our faces are so close to the flame that the heat burns the pale flesh of my chin. His cheeks are frostbitten and rosy from the cool and his eyes must be just as beautiful as his mother’s, because I cannot imagine eyes more vibrant or green or perfect. The flame becomes searing and I tap the top shut. Light extinguished, it is just our heads close together, hanging in this shadowed space. I breathe in what he exhales. “Are you disappointed?” he whispers. I lean forward until our foreheads brush. The feeling of unknown rises in my stomach and I cup the back of his head, holding us both up in the silence. “The opposite”. We stay there for a long time, feeling the warm of each other. again I am reminded of gravity, his magnetism.

“So F.I, What’s your name?”

“Frank Iero”