Persevering Paige

My best writing comes late at night, when the early hours of the morning are upon us. Sometimes I get urges to write meaningless words, fragments of moments that I want to taste for a little while. So I shall.

The pink carpet, a few white pillows on the floor. Some parts of it, you can pick out specific strings of the carpet, they don’t look like a part of the rest. The sun comes in through the window, and it hits the pink carpet leaving a brighter, gold version of it in the moment for a little while. The curtains are pulled back just the right way, and the vacuum sits upright, angled. Your dark jeans, sneakers, and blonde hair pulled back in a clip with brown spurts showing become a part of the room majestically. Your passion for this one room, you never let anyone in it because you said it was the only room you could keep clean. The rest of the house didn’t matter, we were free to mess it up.

You always wore sneakers in that room, even when you were cleaning it. I never understood that, but I loved it. 

You’d do your thing without interruption, and sometimes I’d just watch you and think how one day I want to be as beautiful as you. The air was pure and life was full, I sure do miss you.