Walking On

Three Word Wednesday. This week's words: Amateur, Diligent, Nurture.

I fumble like an amateur as I tread the stony path to you, like I haven't learnt from my mistakes. My feet are bloody, I have forgotten the place from where I began. It's dark and rather lonely here. Sometimes I wonder why I trudge on because I see no sight of you. Or of anyone else. I wonder if it is because my eyes (and my brain) are set on finding you, and you alone. I hear echoes. If only they didn't resonate from the past. I feel the rubbery graze of a bat and goosebumps erupt on my arm. I curse you for always being more than a step ahead. I hate you for not waiting. The trees make strange shadows overhead. Stretching wily fingers at me. It's not fear that engulfs me but I can't figure out why I feel this nausea.

Do you remember those afternoons on the bed, with the sun filtering in through the sheer white curtains, when we played cards and bickered like children? When my fingers diligently traced the lines of yours as if I could memorize the exact pattern of your fingerprints. My mind drifts to winter evenings cycling to ancient corners for cheap food and loud crowds. When we found the little hill with the lone tree and you looked at me with eyes brimming with awe. I think of that quiet session with your music in our ears and the biting cold at our feet and I'd felt like we'd grown up, but stayed just the same.

I don't want to go on anymore. What used to feel like a blanket nurturing me in snowy weather now feels like a bed of nails. Those childlike antics of ours used to be enough. But innocence has been blackened over the years and what's left of our incredulous theatrics is simply a mediocre pantomime. Endless words and open laughter have given way to pathetic silences. The arms that protected now shirk responsibility, like a superhero past his prime.

I cannot let go, despite it all. My blistered feet walk on.