Author's Note: I don't know what this is...why do I never know what the hell it is I'm writing? All I know is that I was listening to Rains Here Too by Kate York, and then I wrote this. I didn't have any particular poet in mind, so it's anyone's guess.
Disclaimer: The poets don't belong to me; I just mess with them.
He moved south.
He couldn't stand the snow that came every winter without fail, coating the landscape like a blanket on a giant's back.
It reminded him too much of that winter so many years ago.
One flake and that was all it would take for him to fall into his memories. The memories he didn't want to fall back into.
He wanted to remember the good times. The times that involved smiles and laughter and love.
Not the times that involved tears and bitter cold and despair.
So he moved south.
He tried to block out the thoughts that constantly bombarded him.
Why hadn't he seen it coming?
Why hadn't he been able to help?
Why hadn't Neil come to him for help?
He had always been there. Always.
All Neil had needed to do was reach out and ask, and he would have dropped everything from just one simple request.
But he didn't see it coming, and Neil didn't ask for help.
He failed.
And so he moved south.
Away from the cold.
Away from the memories.
Away from the Poets.
Away.
He didn't move. He ran.
He ran away.
He ran from the cold.
From the memories.
From the Poets.
He didn't run far enough.
He didn't escape the cold.
The memories.
The Poets.
The miles that he put between him and his past weren't enough to keep the memories at bay. They weren't enough to keep the Poets from tracking him down through the years. From stopping the phone from ringing.
Smashing the phone against the wall worked. But then his mother worried. And all things went to hell when his mother worried.
He can't escape the cold.
No matter where he goes.
It's cold.
He's cold.
So he moved south.
He ran south.
And he still failed.
He's cold here, too.
Author's Note: Meh, I'm not quite sure how I feel about his. Impulse writing, I guess.