propylaios

He is the first creeping shadows of night, the final fleeting darkness at dawn. He is the heaviest, fullest strawberries of the harvest. He is the battered penny you find on the ground, the discarded bones at the crossroads. He is the blood you tear from your lips when you're too afraid to speak. He is the stranger you take home even though your mother told you that you're not "that kind of girl". He is the open road, the deafening command to leave it all behind and go, just go, just GO. He is a kiss that tastes of cheap whiskey and cinnamon and cigarette smoke. He is tired feet that keep running when there's nothing left. He is the whistled tune in the wind. He is the angry shrieks of children playing at war, the cries of ecstatic and desperate lovers. He is the lie you tell simply because you can. He is the childhood fears that are never outgrown, the hand that lingers a moment too long on the light switch. He is dark basement stairs and opened closet doors. He is ink and paper, dusty books at the bottom of a yard sale box. He is the coin toss that decides left or right. He is the cracked, forgotten gravestone. He is dark honey, whispered promises, and every painful thing that ever made you feel alive.