You are in it, caught up, red-handed, dust-devil drawn - light sketch lines. There is so much above you, but you don't look up. You do not see the swift-winged swallows tear the sky to ribbons. You are aware of clouds, but you do not look to see them - you take their shade and ignore the beauty they sculpt into the opal sky. You promised. The words echo in your head - the echoes are loud and frantic and you picture her face. You think: well, yeah... You promised, but there is something childlike about her disappointment - you have lived too long in the world where promises are like sunny-day popsicles, overly sweet and easily broken.
She steps out of the crowd at the bus station and it breaks your heart, truly. There is an ache inside so acute it frightens you - you wonder what a heart attack feels like. You want to run, but before you know it there are air kisses and she still wears the same perfume and the wind won't scatter it fast enough, and you're angry. You didn't ask for this. This taste of perfume thick in your mouth.
She talks so much and you wonder if it's natural. It sure doesn't seem like it. Seems like dexedrine. But that's not your business. Everyone has their secret crushes. Their secret crutches. Yours makes you quiet, withdrawn. It works out well. You stare at the space between her eyebrows and let the words soak you to the bone, not understanding. There is nothing to be understood.
Do you want to talk about it?
Your mind closes, and you feel loathing like syrup in your lungs. Of course. She called because of the funeral. It must have been in the paper. For a brief second you are back, standing in a raucous patch of sunlight wondering why. Why? And now it is all too clear. She felt obligated. That's all. It makes you feel lost and selfish and sad.
You shrug your jacket on. She's still saying things and the things are still too fast. She grabs your arm and you shake it away with a ferocity that is surprising to both of you. It turns her face large, smooth. She is still yelling after you, shrieks of guilt, slick along the broken buildings. It doesn't matter. You don't want to talk anymore.
Too real to put into words.ReplyDelete
Thank you, Yvonne.Delete
Wonderful as always. You amaze me. I love this: "promises are like sunny-day popsicles, overly sweet and easily broken" among other gems.ReplyDelete
Thanks much, Julie. I appreciate you stopping by. See you tomm! ;)Delete
Just perfect. The words hang together harmoniously like they belong where he put them.ReplyDelete
Thanks brother. Start cracking your knuckles. Tomorrow's Friday. ;)Delete