i waste all of my time just thinking of you

Clover Love Lykoi · 01-08-2012, 11:54 AM

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Word Count → 429 ::
Anyone feel free to join - Clover is just sitting in her room in the Ruins singing.

She had grown a little thinner, as if the cold weather had stifled her appetite. It was hardly a harsh winter, as the last year had proved to be. She had lost her father then, or so she had thought, and her family had slowly crumbled apart after that. While the lemon balm steeped in the steaming water, Clover turned the yellowed pages of her journal, slender fingers searching for words she had written months ago. The young, innocent, hippie child had grown into a much different woman. Though she was still very much the same at the core, Clover was not so naïve to think that everything was sunshine, rainbows, and happiness. Sometimes Mother Earth was not always kind, and sometimes people grew sad.

Amongst random scrawling of notes about plants, ideas she had, thoughts on various days, she found what she had been looking for. The girl once used to turn her ideas into lyrics and occasionally would scribble them down so they would not leave her, as many times they came when her mind was clouded by her precious cannabis. She had not sung in quite some time, and the pearly white guitar had sat dormant in her room for too long. When she reached for it, her touch was soft and hesitant, as if touching a lover for the first time. Clawed fingertips caressed the steel strings, sliding along them to create the slightest twang of sound. How she had missed this love. It fit so comfortably in her lap, when she finally pulled it close and situated it there. Despite the span of time that had lapsed, it seemed as if the guitar had always been there. There was so much familiarity in it, so much memory, that time did not matter anymore. Pale eyes flickered to the pages, skimming over the words that had been written some time ago, before the girl strummed her first chord. It was not as lovely as she remembered, but as the next chords came and she sang those things written there, the song materialized into something beautiful.

In small wisps barely visible, steam rose from the steeping lemon balm tea. Next to the cup lay a swatch of cheesecloth so that the leaves could be sieved away from the tea once it had the flavor so desired. It had become a daily routine in the young Lykoi woman’s life; a calming ritual, much like the cannabis she so often smoked. It was her own remedy.

And it hurts to hold on, but it's missed when it's gone.

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