I awake in a building surrounded
by serfs to spoons and idolaters to
their ecstasy. The gallant grey walls of
apartment 124 wither a-
mongst the white window panes. The sleeping wo-
man beside me blacked out over two years a-
go. Or at least that’s what she claims. Bang! The
bellowing blast shivers throughout my spine
and I glance towards the window. It wasn’t
a bullet. Just a car. She doesn’t move.
She stays silent in the gallows of her
sleep. The TV flickers back on. A sadly ex-
ecuted commercial about a
pointless product hooks me for the moment.
An old man and a young woman talk with
long glaring looks about life insurance pol-
icies. Anna stirs, she realizes I’m
awake. She rolls over and puts a hand
on my back. “Hold me” are the simple words
she breathes into the nape of my neck. My
hand gropes the left side of the bed, rif-
ling for the remote. The TV powers off
and I slide my arm over Anna’s slen-
der waist. Her fingers find my hands and she
makes tight little circles on the top of my palm
with her ring finger. Slowly the frequen-
cy decreases as she succumbs to slum-
ber once more. I lay here. I live here. Her
body drives life into my chest and her pres-
ence is the only thing keeping me in this
room. This room, situated in this run-
down apartment, nestled in this no-where
neighborhood, forgotten to the fast
paced world. Leave or love-in-limbo is the
dispute adulterating the mole-
cules of my mind. It is the exhausting
battle I perpetually endure.
Days are spent deliberating of ways to kneel beside bed-
posts in the embargoed night. The only moment
I have to breathe is the simple seconds spent holding Anna
in the early hours of the morning.
The sounds of the parking lot score the in-
timate scene; the howl of the cool wind,
the hum of a quiet car. Everything
works together to tempt the tensions of
our ill-fated resistances. I don’t
sleep. I hide from it. The times I have coun-
ted the DVD’s along the wall
in the light of darkness are innumer-
able. I paint plastered pictures of peo-
ple along the withering white walls; I
escape in the little bits of breaths ex-
changed while the clock counts upward. Anna tens-
es. She must be dreaming. She speaks sonnets
about situations centuries a-
go. I lustfully listen to every
lingering syllable, awaiting an-
swers to each professed antiquity. While
I want, whistle and willfully yearn for
the days when each facet of my falter-
ing life is to be fulfilled, there is a com-
fort in the complacency of each car-
ess that I could have never calculate-
ed. I know, in this moment, something is
right. The myth of the moment, however,
is that it is remembered. Moments fade
and the memories eventually
converge into maligned mistruths. They die,
disfigured in the dalliances of
a true connection. Will this die? Will there
be a time of day when I don’t laugh at
the way she wiggles her nose before she
sneezes? Will I not find solace in a
mid-morning text; just to meander, e-
ven if neither of us has the time? It
is impossible. It is improba-
ble. Sleep begins to seduce what’s left of
my strengths. Before I close my eyes I look
one last time at Anna. She stays still, i-
mmortalized in the seconds
it will be before I speak to her again.

This was something I first wrote three years ago during a bit of transition and I thought it would be cool to revisit it for a NaPoWriMo post. It was originally prose but I broke it up into ten syllable lines (except for the last one which has ten) in an effort to see how it reads in verse. What do you think?


Welcome to the empty recesses of my mind! I'm a recent college graduate realizing a Creative Writing degree was a bad idea. Give me a pity like. Or you could check out the about sections (on the front page and about this author page) on my blog to learn a little more about me. Whatever. https://thebohemianrockstarpresents.wordpress.com/

4 Comment on “#NaPoWriMo2014 Day 24 “Revisiting Anna”

  1. Pingback: My five favorite #NaPoWriMo posts | The Bohemian Rock Star's "Untitled Project"

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