With cold air leaving my quivering lips, I hum the lyrics to 10 000 Emerald Pools.
Mid winter, my toes are turning white, a contrast to the gray sky above. The clouds spin as if it were milk churning into silver butter. The frozen mist rises like an angry mob of abused peasants, destroying everything.
I begin to scrub away the green in the water. An emerald pool indeed. Green like American money. Green like Othello's Green-Eyed Monster. Green that calms his heart, the green that reminds him of me.
My knuckles are white, my fingers are cerulean blue. Mist foams at my mouth, freezing up faster than water turns to ice.
Maybe ... I should ... just sink in the water.
Calm, cold, green water.
YOU ARE READING
Cerulean
Non-FictionMy thoughts, depression and short stories need a place to stay. (Trigger Warning: may potentially contain explicit content such as depression, suicide, substance abuse, etc.)
