I am beyond thrilled to have the amazingly talented, Ashley Sapp, as a guest blogger today. I was privileged enough to stumble upon her work and was immediately drawn to the depth and rawness of her words. Her emotional fiction, non-fiction, and poetry pieces always resonate with me, including her contribution below. She’s inspiring to other writers, like myself, and a beautiful person who I’m happy to call a new friend.
Talia felt the memory hands, gentle, on her skin. The warmth of remembered love tickled her and made her feel sparked. She sat in her favorite chair of the house, oversized and placed perfectly in her miniature office. Her view was not terrible by any means, overlooking a vast field of trees reaching out to one another with their branch arms. Searching for contact, they brushed leaves with the push of wind, mimicking the adoration Talia had felt, but leaning away afterwards, leaving the tiniest of spaces between then and now.
Her fiancé was an amazing man. He treated her kindly, he demonstrated his admiration of her, and he never failed to let her know what he felt. She loved him, of course. She adored his passion and vibrancy that no one could miss when meeting him. He was an engineer, and therefore, he thought everything out carefully, placing all into their categories. He was the structure to her mess. She used to find that comforting, but now their relationship had fallen into making this a habit. He often cleaned up after her, forgiving her, nurturing her, though she found herself weaving away. To place her hand within his was to reach through her piles of confused emotion, to feel the push of wanted love without the full weight of it. She wanted to be happy, in love, but she realized the love she felt was of comfort and normalcy more than true desire. There was no longer the ache to be enveloped by him, to be part of him, to live a life mingled with his.
Eyes closed, she leaned her head back onto the cushion of chair, breathing deeply. She had the tendency to do this, to throw herself deeply into something only to feel emptiness as time passed, though she felt no wish to analyze her past to figure out the reason. Instead, living without consequence was her inclination. She thought of her fiancé and was aware of the time, his pattern for returning home from work. She thought of her life here, how easy it was. Opening her eyes, she rolled her head to the side, the trees mocking her now, standing firm where they were. Standing from her chair, she thought of things she could say to explain her leaving. A small laugh escaped her, as this was yet another mess for him to clean up. “Do I stay?” she asked her shared living space. The quiet shook her. Tears flooded her eyes, making it impossible to see, though she blinked them away as quickly as she could. She moaned quietly, aching for the love of it all. How does one feel treasured and still feel cold?