The Notebook

I used to write... all the time. Just little bits here and there, every hour, of every day, of every year since he died. It wasn't much, but it kept me sane. Just that tattered notebook, and my insignificant pages of jottings was enough.

I remember that café, the torn seats, the scratched tables, and the endless hours I'd sit there, just writing and writing till I had nothing left to tell. I remember my tattoo, the small name forever inscribed across my chest. I remember feeling nothing but memories when the tattoo artist created it. And if I think real hard; I can remember her face, too.

Never for long, just fleeting flashes of memory. Images a blur in my mind. I see her smile sometimes, too. Whenever I'm alone, when I drift off into my own little world, I can catch glimpses, just tiny worn images of her face, indented for just a second, in my mind. It isn't much, and I'd do anything to see her for longer; but I don't have that power, it isn't right for me to hope like that. - When I know, deep down, that it happened. And no one can turn back time. Not even me.

I'm just a guy who died in 9/11.

I just watched the film, and well, this just came to me. I'm not sure of the technicalities of how this could work. But it's just a little one-shot, nothing else, nothing more. Just a one-shot. That's all.

~Wildatheart~