Drabble #29 – Driftwood
You clench your fist, and say “This… isn’t it.” I shut my eyes, as though, if I squeeze them tight enough, I will open them and be somewhere else. “This isn’t a thing.” Except for when it kind of is. You see, sometimes it is complicated, but more often it is rather simple. I am a fleeting moment, like unripe fruit– bitter and sharp. I am like when the dog that ran away from your childhood comes back, and you realize that they, just like you, have aged. I am only a piece of driftwood, lost, and too far from home.
*gloomy*