words quietly tired, paragrah i've been working on Options

[RiddleMeWonders]

Among the memories that are buried here, one reaches up and breaks through the net of grass upon it. The smell of a pipe hovers in my nostrils, placed there by the memory launched. The blurriness of the room is in my eyes, seeing the flannel, the dark pants. What didn’t belong was the glass jar; ever so clear on the desk. It held a wildflower. My eyes held it tightly in their vision. It wasn’t particularly beautiful, but it was better than the reality of the rest of the room. The words seeking out my ears, that I never really understood until they grew louder and hands found my arms, said simply “Leave. Leave now.” I looked up, but when I looked back down at the jar, the wild flower was just as invisible as the rest of the room. The hands on my arms guided me out, placed me in a car, and I had to promise to wait. I obeyed. Now, the first time returning, the room is just a room. Words are quietly tired and then vanish into the silence of sleeping memories. Hands no longer exist.