Mystic Paths

The gravel path was dark, and rough beneath her feet. The pickling that numbed her toes made her wonder if this life was her new life. The crossing appeared and she took a mystic path. A path that existing was painful. Wonder took a hold of you, and killed you. One wrong move, and the mystic was no longer mystic. It was a dead path. A path of death. It was cold, it gave her goose bumps. Those cold, hard bumps through up her arm like a race car on the track. It gave her that thought of him at the way he would smile every time she gave him a harsh glare. She would become this way every time he bought her that ring she denied every fancy dinner. Pathetic, she repeated hundreds of time before she got in her dark, blue Cadillac, and she drove to his dark and twisted apartment building, where the grass dies and the flowers grow longer than a 80's rock fan. No need for regret as she drives closer and closer. He is outside the building, sitting on the step with a cold beer and cigar in each hand. She pulled up and ran out of her car, he was in so much pain from the night before, he was denied of his love again. He was not so pleased to see her running and crying more than a spring morning, he couldn't handle it. She ran up and kissed him on the lips and said those two words that changed them forever, I do.