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Not a speck of dust coats me, nor the shelf I am sitting on. Autumn foliage shades the building, and the greens and browns of this beautiful day make me feel both alive, and alone. I gaze out across the room through blank eyes, and smile inwardly as the bell goes and a young girl enters the shop. For a moment, I'm fearful, I wonder if she is alone, though moments later she is followed by a worn looking pair of parents, shaking the sunlight off their shoulders as they enter the warm, safe place I call home. The girl seems excited, and she runs over to my resting place. She kneels hurriedly, and is looking at the boardgames below me, with the kind of sunny grin that can light up any room, running her fingers along the Ludo and Snakes and Ladders boxes.
Her parents are preoccupied with a dark blue antique vase, which is sitting atop a mahogany table in a far darker corner of the shop. I am wondering whether my time has come yet again, but I guess I am always wondering this. The girl slowly rises to her feet, and notices me, holding my gaze. I stare back with no emotion, but I feel like crying because I have a world's worth to offer her. Her eyes are deep, dark pools of brown, she is most likely four years old. Her eyes are joyous, intelligent, as though the world is hers, and she's simply waiting for the right moment to take it. I see love in her eyes, and the gleam of an inner, deep, satisfaction within tells me all I need to know. She is loved, and she does not need me. She looks at me for seven seconds, her mouth curls slightly, then breaks open into an enchanting and toothy smile. She begins laughing, turns, her golden hair emphasising the dullness of mine, she dashes towards her parents, their loving faces lowering slightly as they talk to her. She points at me, I let my guard down.
“Mummy, look how ugly that thing is!”
They have left now. My face remains still, it always has, and it always will. The shopkeeper is sitting behind the till now, he's reading a novel. “Wuthering Heights” I can not imagine what this could be about. He seems deeply enthralled, and his eyebrows are narrowed over his bespectacled, incredibly sad blue eyes. I love you. I wonder if he knows? I have been living here by his grace for five years now. Everytime he looks at me, he smiles. I desperately wish I could smile back at him, just once. To let him know how grateful I am. He doesn't have to hold me, though part of me wishes he would, every time he dusts the shelf I sit on, or picks me up to show me to a customer, I feel less alone. But even though his eyes are so unbearably dark and unhappy, I know he doesn't need me. I want to make him happy, because I have so much love to give, but I can't, and this confuses me, and I want to cry.
It is the next day, and the shopkeeper is still reading “Wuthering Heights”. I'm still, and I know. It does not matter how many years go by, someone has always come for me and somebody always will. Weeks have passed now. The leaves are falling from the trees, snow often coats the world out side, and I long to be out there too. I want to be with somebody, all I want is someone to hold me. A
year passes, I think the shopkeeper is getting sick. He opens the shop less often, and when he does, it is open for shorter amounts of time. He often plays classical music, and we sit together, him behind the till closing his eyes as each tune melts in their own individual way, me trying to understand the music, trying to understand why no-one wants me. I imagine the shopkeeper thinks back to a time when things were simpler, when there was somebody to hold him. Somebody truly alive.
It is a beautiful Summer's day, everything in the shop seems mystical, and the lighting gives the place a sorrowful incandescence. A man in his early twenties enters the shop. He strolls around the room quietly, pausing every so often to look at the various items for sale. He stops as he reaches my shelf. A mysterious smile, then I'm being carried across the room to the till. I relish the way the young man holds me, it's delicate, I feel like expensive china, or a new-born kitten. As I'm put onto the counter, the shopkeeper runs a hand through his silver hair, then lowers his glasses to look at me. Our eyes meet. I can't stand the long sad look he gives me, and I want him ever so desperately, for him to pick me up and hug me, just once. His hand moves over to my ear, and strokes it softly.
“Take good care of him”
As I'm being carried out of the shop, I see tears welling behind the glass frames.
I love you.
Her parents are preoccupied with a dark blue antique vase, which is sitting atop a mahogany table in a far darker corner of the shop. I am wondering whether my time has come yet again, but I guess I am always wondering this. The girl slowly rises to her feet, and notices me, holding my gaze. I stare back with no emotion, but I feel like crying because I have a world's worth to offer her. Her eyes are deep, dark pools of brown, she is most likely four years old. Her eyes are joyous, intelligent, as though the world is hers, and she's simply waiting for the right moment to take it. I see love in her eyes, and the gleam of an inner, deep, satisfaction within tells me all I need to know. She is loved, and she does not need me. She looks at me for seven seconds, her mouth curls slightly, then breaks open into an enchanting and toothy smile. She begins laughing, turns, her golden hair emphasising the dullness of mine, she dashes towards her parents, their loving faces lowering slightly as they talk to her. She points at me, I let my guard down.
“Mummy, look how ugly that thing is!”
They have left now. My face remains still, it always has, and it always will. The shopkeeper is sitting behind the till now, he's reading a novel. “Wuthering Heights” I can not imagine what this could be about. He seems deeply enthralled, and his eyebrows are narrowed over his bespectacled, incredibly sad blue eyes. I love you. I wonder if he knows? I have been living here by his grace for five years now. Everytime he looks at me, he smiles. I desperately wish I could smile back at him, just once. To let him know how grateful I am. He doesn't have to hold me, though part of me wishes he would, every time he dusts the shelf I sit on, or picks me up to show me to a customer, I feel less alone. But even though his eyes are so unbearably dark and unhappy, I know he doesn't need me. I want to make him happy, because I have so much love to give, but I can't, and this confuses me, and I want to cry.
It is the next day, and the shopkeeper is still reading “Wuthering Heights”. I'm still, and I know. It does not matter how many years go by, someone has always come for me and somebody always will. Weeks have passed now. The leaves are falling from the trees, snow often coats the world out side, and I long to be out there too. I want to be with somebody, all I want is someone to hold me. A
year passes, I think the shopkeeper is getting sick. He opens the shop less often, and when he does, it is open for shorter amounts of time. He often plays classical music, and we sit together, him behind the till closing his eyes as each tune melts in their own individual way, me trying to understand the music, trying to understand why no-one wants me. I imagine the shopkeeper thinks back to a time when things were simpler, when there was somebody to hold him. Somebody truly alive.
It is a beautiful Summer's day, everything in the shop seems mystical, and the lighting gives the place a sorrowful incandescence. A man in his early twenties enters the shop. He strolls around the room quietly, pausing every so often to look at the various items for sale. He stops as he reaches my shelf. A mysterious smile, then I'm being carried across the room to the till. I relish the way the young man holds me, it's delicate, I feel like expensive china, or a new-born kitten. As I'm put onto the counter, the shopkeeper runs a hand through his silver hair, then lowers his glasses to look at me. Our eyes meet. I can't stand the long sad look he gives me, and I want him ever so desperately, for him to pick me up and hug me, just once. His hand moves over to my ear, and strokes it softly.
“Take good care of him”
As I'm being carried out of the shop, I see tears welling behind the glass frames.
I love you.
:-(
Not a speck of dust coats me, nor the shelf I am sitting on. Autumn foliage shades the building, and the greens and browns of this beautiful day make me feel both alive, and alone. I gaze out across the room through blank eyes, and smile inwardly as the bell goes and a young girl enters the shop. For a moment, I'm fearful, I wonder if she is alone, though moments later she is followed by a worn looking pair of parents, shaking the sunlight off their shoulders as they enter the warm, safe place I call home. The girl seems excited, and she runs over to my resting place. She kneels hurriedly, and is looking at the boardgames below me, with the kind of sunny grin that can light up any room, running her fingers along the Ludo and Snakes and Ladders boxes.
Her parents are preoccupied with a dark blue antique vase, which is sitting atop a mahogany table in a far darker corner of the shop. I am wondering whether my time has come yet again, but I guess I am always wondering this. The girl slowly rises to her feet, and notices me, holding my gaze. I stare back with no emotion, but I feel like crying because I have a world's worth to offer her. Her eyes are deep, dark pools of brown, she is most likely four years old. Her eyes are joyous, intelligent, as though the world is hers, and she's simply waiting for the right moment to take it. I see love in her eyes, and the gleam of an inner, deep, satisfaction within tells me all I need to know. She is loved, and she does not need me. She looks at me for seven seconds, her mouth curls slightly, then breaks open into an enchanting and toothy smile. She begins laughing, turns, her golden hair emphasising the dullness of mine, she dashes towards her parents, their loving faces lowering slightly as they talk to her. She points at me, I let my guard down.
“Mummy, look how ugly that thing is!”
They have left now. My face remains still, it always has, and it always will. The shopkeeper is sitting behind the till now, he's reading a novel. “Wuthering Heights” I can not imagine what this could be about. He seems deeply enthralled, and his eyebrows are narrowed over his bespectacled, incredibly sad blue eyes. I love you. I wonder if he knows? I have been living here by his grace for five years now. Everytime he looks at me, he smiles. I desperately wish I could smile back at him, just once. To let him know how grateful I am. He doesn't have to hold me, though part of me wishes he would, every time he dusts the shelf I sit on, or picks me up to show me to a customer, I feel less alone. But even though his eyes are so unbearably dark and unhappy, I know he doesn't need me. I want to make him happy, because I have so much love to give, but I can't, and this confuses me, and I want to cry.
It is the next day, and the shopkeeper is still reading “Wuthering Heights”. I'm still, and I know. It does not matter how many years go by, someone has always come for me and somebody always will. Weeks have passed now. The leaves are falling from the trees, snow often coats the world out side, and I long to be out there too. I want to be with somebody, all I want is someone to hold me. A
year passes, I think the shopkeeper is getting sick. He opens the shop less often, and when he does, it is open for shorter amounts of time. He often plays classical music, and we sit together, him behind the till closing his eyes as each tune melts in their own individual way, me trying to understand the music, trying to understand why no-one wants me. I imagine the shopkeeper thinks back to a time when things were simpler, when there was somebody to hold him. Somebody truly alive.
It is a beautiful Summer's day, everything in the shop seems mystical, and the lighting gives the place a sorrowful incandescence. A man in his early twenties enters the shop. He strolls around the room quietly, pausing every so often to look at the various items for sale. He stops as he reaches my shelf. A mysterious smile, then I'm being carried across the room to the till. I relish the way the young man holds me, it's delicate, I feel like expensive china, or a new-born kitten. As I'm put onto the counter, the shopkeeper runs a hand through his silver hair, then lowers his glasses to look at me. Our eyes meet. I can't stand the long sad look he gives me, and I want him ever so desperately, for him to pick me up and hug me, just once. His hand moves over to my ear, and strokes it softly.
“Take good care of him”
As I'm being carried out of the shop, I see tears welling behind the glass frames.
I love you.
Her parents are preoccupied with a dark blue antique vase, which is sitting atop a mahogany table in a far darker corner of the shop. I am wondering whether my time has come yet again, but I guess I am always wondering this. The girl slowly rises to her feet, and notices me, holding my gaze. I stare back with no emotion, but I feel like crying because I have a world's worth to offer her. Her eyes are deep, dark pools of brown, she is most likely four years old. Her eyes are joyous, intelligent, as though the world is hers, and she's simply waiting for the right moment to take it. I see love in her eyes, and the gleam of an inner, deep, satisfaction within tells me all I need to know. She is loved, and she does not need me. She looks at me for seven seconds, her mouth curls slightly, then breaks open into an enchanting and toothy smile. She begins laughing, turns, her golden hair emphasising the dullness of mine, she dashes towards her parents, their loving faces lowering slightly as they talk to her. She points at me, I let my guard down.
“Mummy, look how ugly that thing is!”
They have left now. My face remains still, it always has, and it always will. The shopkeeper is sitting behind the till now, he's reading a novel. “Wuthering Heights” I can not imagine what this could be about. He seems deeply enthralled, and his eyebrows are narrowed over his bespectacled, incredibly sad blue eyes. I love you. I wonder if he knows? I have been living here by his grace for five years now. Everytime he looks at me, he smiles. I desperately wish I could smile back at him, just once. To let him know how grateful I am. He doesn't have to hold me, though part of me wishes he would, every time he dusts the shelf I sit on, or picks me up to show me to a customer, I feel less alone. But even though his eyes are so unbearably dark and unhappy, I know he doesn't need me. I want to make him happy, because I have so much love to give, but I can't, and this confuses me, and I want to cry.
It is the next day, and the shopkeeper is still reading “Wuthering Heights”. I'm still, and I know. It does not matter how many years go by, someone has always come for me and somebody always will. Weeks have passed now. The leaves are falling from the trees, snow often coats the world out side, and I long to be out there too. I want to be with somebody, all I want is someone to hold me. A
year passes, I think the shopkeeper is getting sick. He opens the shop less often, and when he does, it is open for shorter amounts of time. He often plays classical music, and we sit together, him behind the till closing his eyes as each tune melts in their own individual way, me trying to understand the music, trying to understand why no-one wants me. I imagine the shopkeeper thinks back to a time when things were simpler, when there was somebody to hold him. Somebody truly alive.
It is a beautiful Summer's day, everything in the shop seems mystical, and the lighting gives the place a sorrowful incandescence. A man in his early twenties enters the shop. He strolls around the room quietly, pausing every so often to look at the various items for sale. He stops as he reaches my shelf. A mysterious smile, then I'm being carried across the room to the till. I relish the way the young man holds me, it's delicate, I feel like expensive china, or a new-born kitten. As I'm put onto the counter, the shopkeeper runs a hand through his silver hair, then lowers his glasses to look at me. Our eyes meet. I can't stand the long sad look he gives me, and I want him ever so desperately, for him to pick me up and hug me, just once. His hand moves over to my ear, and strokes it softly.
“Take good care of him”
As I'm being carried out of the shop, I see tears welling behind the glass frames.
I love you.