claude wolfe. eight.

My Mom has always said I am Aria, reincarnate - but that's a load of shit.

I know that to be entirely untrue because I see her in my sleep, and she sees me. We stand on a beach and she smiles at me, she always has, ever since I was a little girl. But as I aged, she did not. She stayed the same, all of fifteen - kind, old eyes. A kind, solemn smile. I would stand, ankles in the ocean, and even when I woke I could hear the sounds of the sea drifting across the sand as the images left me. And when I turned fifteen I was taller than her, waving my hand as the waves lapped up my feet - little kisses against my toes, wiggling in the sand.

Mom says I have a vivid imagination, I say she is holding onto ghosts. A Wolfe face, carved from stone - a Wolfe glare, sharp as steel. But my dreams are soft sunshine, warm sand, navy blue ocean, and kind, kind eyes. 

Aria and I pass each-other in my dreams - never touching, never speaking, just being. Together, for a while. And when my Mom confessed at three months old I had turned blue in my sleep and the neighbour had to breathe life back into me again it made sense - ghost girls, one not quite alive. One not quite dead. 

Never touching, never speaking, just being. Together, for a while, in a little life.

In a little death.

ripred_bot 4/6 ratmas cbs