UnreliableRuth

I don't want to run away from myself anymore. There's only so far you can go, after all. And at the end of the day, when at first you see a stranger in the mirror and then perchance look a moment longer, you're bound to realize that there's still some inch, some mischievous nook or cranny you overlooked overflowing with who you really are.

I'm giving myself some time -- again. There's no need to hang a "Vacancy" sign from the inside of my window quite yet. No, I can wait forever in this little room -- or, at least, a few more months.

From my bed, I can see treetops, golden in the sun, and endless sky. If I venture over to the sign-less window and look down, I can watch the people walking along the sidewalk, seeming to swing to and fro in little gusts of springtime wind.

It's enough.

The universe is like a room into which we stumble, quite bewildered and exasperated, having forgotten what we originally set out to find. Perhaps life is merely our way of retracing our steps, and death is that finest moment when we at last recall whatever it was we were looking for.

You can hear her beauty as she walks towards you. You close your eyes and listen––footsteps drip lightly down the hallway and hands trail nimble constellations along the walls, scraping tenderly at your senses. You find the fullness of her lips in her shallow breaths; her delicate limbs, the playful curve of her spine, and the gentle swell of her hips are tangled in her slow approach, the barest of whispers. She moves like a dream––echoed phrases and distant thunder, the deep thrum of a lover's heartbeat. You will always know her by the music of her being.

I'll tidy up the bedroom -- throw open the windows, repaint the walls, sweep the floors, change the sheets, make the bed, and set fresh flowers on the table. I'm ready. I'm really ready.