This one is for Sacha Black’s challenge. To enter, have a look here to read the rules and the other entries.
I sit on the edge of this cliff, my heels scuffing the white dusty stone, and I watch the night fall. Not that it does, fall, it just is. Always. Whenever I sit here and watch, it’s nightfall. The stars glitter unhelpfully, and I wish they would do something more distracting, like fall. The Aurora Borealis would be pretty. But that’s just in stories. No colour twitters here to take my mind off the dust. My boots chunk against the rock, scuffing my heels, and the stars say nothing.
Below, the dust is deeper. Like snow and just as cold. But too far away to be real. Like the sea that left so long ago nobody remembers. It seeped into the dust and makes waves now inside the cold rock. So they say, but I’ve never heard it. The only sound here is the stars, and they’re silent. Sometimes I think I hear them singing, but it’s only the mice. They scuttle through the dust, taunting me with their rattling.
You took it all away when you went, the colours in the sky, the sea, grass swaying beneath my hand. This is all you left. Dead rocks and silent night.