Author: The Melissa Occult PM
"Life" as in... what?Rated: Fiction T - English - Humor/Poetry - Words: 729 - Reviews: 4 - Favs: 2 - Published: 07-09-06 - id: 2208645
|A+ A- Full 3/4 1/2 Expand Tighten|
I plop down beside you on the bench to catch my breath, before they all escape, never to return, leaving me breathless. I look into angel's eyes and see only a mirror of myself, but that's alright. The parade of mannequins marches on around us, the browns, blacks, blues, and greys of business. I am an island, a crater in the sea of tranquility. I wear pink to offset my mind and to accent your face. It's mainly for me, because your face is getting uglier every second, though you don't realize it. I don't care about your face. I am a blind man with the wind in my hair, the paradoxes of space pay me no heed. I pause my breathing to tell you a haiku that my brain created, it went something like this:
Cherry blossoms drift
Through practiced fingers of wind
I run childlike
You laugh and tell me that I'm missing a syllable, I say to fuck the syllable, they're not important anyways, it's the thought powered action that counts. You smile and tell me I'm just like myself. I don't know who I could be more like than myself. I catch a glimpse of the sky through the clouds and trees and 'scrapers. Pointing and shouting, I jump up from the bench, everyone stops and asks me what's wrong. Is it another terrorist attacK? A tornado? An escaped giraffe? I ask them how high they think that jet plane is. They mumble and grumble and curse and walk away, but you stay. Another man stays behind too, he has big glasses. I wonder what he does when it rains, does he glue cricket legs to the rims be wiper blades?
He asks me how high I think it is and I tell him that I don't really know. He studies it for a moment before the clouds eat it. He tells me that it's probably a 747-200 SF with a max altitude of about 45,000 feet and it was probably going about 600 miles per hour. I must have looked amazed, because I was. He told me that he used to design them and that the one up there was made using his plans. We chatted for a bit and he walked away.
I looked up again but there were only clouds. It was breezy in the city, blowing more cherry blossoms around, like a rain before the rain. It smelled like rain, and also like rain before the rain. You ask me how it could smell like rain with all the smog. I tell you that I'm psychic, I read God's mind and he's the one that told me that it smelled like rain.
Some little kids ran by, one of them stops and looks at the heavens. He screams with joy that he felt a drop. Then they were on their way, chased by worried overcaring parents. I ask if you want to go home, but you say you want to stay so we can play in the rain.
We got soaked with water and angry glances. We sat down beside a tree trunk to dry out a little. People hurried by with parasols and umbrellas, I couldn't tell the difference between the two. I ask you about this and you tell me that parasols are umbrellas for sunny days and umbrellas are parasols for rainy days. I lok at you and you look at me and we smile. Sharing a cosmic connection, out of all the people that understood that moment, I think that half of them are dead.
I kissed you and you tasted like rain, I'm sure that I did too.
Some hearts never cry
Some hearts never learn to try
And some hearts never die