Photo, words

“I am become death, destroyer of worlds”, he said, learning against his bicycle, his feet, and it, planted into the sun-white grass, the stark black of the leaves, beneath him.

“Did you mean to say that?”, she asked, looking through her mirror, into an image she was imagining, a man leaning against his bicycle, in the park; the scene, completely bereft of colour, and wholly dark, stark with black and white contrast.

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“You said you love me”, she said, her own eyes closed now, “just now, you say you loved me”, her question could be felt in her stomach; like quickly driving over a hill, in the back seat of a car, she felt the sudden pull of her innards, her unconscious mind flirting with the awareness of the dubious reality, here entertained, with such conviction.

With his head down, his hands in his pockets, he looked as though he were sleeping. He didn’t say anything like that. He knew he had not, because he could feel the tension within him to do this; that tension was as strong as ever.

“I meant that I was alone, and that I wanted to be warmed, some”, his lips moved, the words drawn out in his head, invisible lips and vocal chords, constrained by the mere functional understanding of speech.

“Yes, and I am alone too–“, she began, but he had already begun speaking over her.

“I shouldn’t have come here”, he said, aloud.

“I should have stayed away.”, she said in her mind, he said in his.

And together, they shared in the silence of their minds.

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About Ossington

I often think but seldom share these thoughts. And if the product of my thinking is to affect anything but my own sense of satisfaction, then surely it must be shared. Here you may try to know what I believe to know.
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