The ground is hard, but not cold.
Individual shards of road leave their marks on the soles of her feet, mapping her way home. She sways slightly on the pavement, still a little affected by the evening that lays behind her, shoes swinging freely from her nonchalant fingers. The air is still, the sky is partially lightened, the promise of a beautiful day lingers. It is the type of morning that drunkenly emancipated musicians have strummed about for decades and will sing of for years and centuries and millennia to come.
And yet she is blissfully unaware.
Unaware of the gravel worn grooves in her feet, of the slight dampness in her ruffled hair, of the red wine stain kissing her collar. Aware only of the palpable tension inside her head, of the drink-tinged confusion, of the running, the chase, the loss and the reflection. It follows her everywhere. It drags heavy footsteps behind her, watches her shallow breath trickle through her chest, watching it rise and fall through the loose cotton of her clothing. It watches her sleep, wraps itself around her whilst she showers, caressing her skin and worming its way into her damp knotted hair. It descends the stairs on her shoulders, slowly tightening its grip around her slender neck by the minute. It taints every photograph, every memory, every sighting, every familiar song and every significant date. And yet, it's the only thing that ever stays.
The warm summer morning holds such joy for so many, a few houses down a small child stirs somewhere, a young man lies content, watching his sleeping wife, an old man lies smiling warm in his bed, and the sun hits the roofs of the houses and the cars, making them gleam and glimmer as if they were glassy pebbles amongst cascading spring water. Days that begin this way are special indeed.
And Emily and Loneliness walk hand in hand back to whatever sad universe tomorrow holds.
