Hunting the Dragon

Blogophilia 31.14 Dragon Hunting

Use lyrics from a song by The Clash (London Calling) & Mention your favorite childhood toy. (Bed, a little wooden bed that my dad made for one of my dolls when I was about five. My mom crocheted the blankets.)

Hunting the Dragon

We sit across from each other, the expanse of table littered with our junk. Your large brown eyes are intense and hot, while my grey winter ones swim in water.

Words escape in this vast expanse of space. The radio whispers The Clash, London Calling, in the background.

My hands brush tears off my reddened cheeks before falling to the table, heavy and weary with sadness.

Sunlight from the shaded window catches the silver of my rings. They shimmer like water against the backdrop of wood.

You reach out, your knuckles bruised with blood. Your rough fingers touch my hand just as another tear slips from its wallowing place.

The dragons perch on our backs. Each one weighing heavy. Their wings open to cover us in shadow as those memories of dark places prick our insides.

“We don’t have to talk about those things,” you say gruffly, huskily bending the stiffening distance.

“They never go away,” I sigh, blinking as your image gets blurry and dreamy.

“Babe…” you choke. Your thumb brushes the back of my hand.

Dust drifts in the shafting sunlight. The motel room is musty.

“Quit holding out and take another breath

London calling and I don’t want to shout

But while we were talking, I saw you nodding out“

I look down at our fingers and twine mine with yours. Recall is a damaging thing. It hovers like disaster over the rainbow. To find the golden nuggets is a battle that saps strength, like swimming against a waterfall current.

‘Let Go…’ the dragon whispers.

You stand and pull me upward. My nose mashes against your chest. My eyes drift shut. I am wrapped in the musky scent of you. Your hand holds the back of my head. My tears wet the cotton of your tee.

And just for a moment, the dragons hover smothered out of that space with our combined weight. The radio falls silent, the dust settles on the bed against the wall. We just breathe.

Rebecca R Grusendorf © 2.1.23