|Friction of Resistance
Author: drippingdreams PM
a rainstorm away from a spring. [Abstract poemy proseish thing.]Rated: Fiction K - English - Poetry - Words: 372 - Reviews: 3 - Favs: 1 - Published: 10-23-06 - Status: Complete - id: 2265750
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I always thought she looked like a frog, with those thorny angled elbows and long coiled legs a rainstorm away from a spring, but when she sang she sounded like a cricket, little chirp-chirp whirrs, and I always expected her to leap out and devour herself. And her heart was cold, so I longed to take it in my hands and warm it, breathe erudite steam over its dewed surface until it stopped shivering and moved with the rhythm of the epicenter of the earth. She liked my lollipop expressions, she said, but that was about all. Once you got to the center you were just left with a bit of garbage and a sticky memory of polysaccharides that turned your mouth the wrong color. There wasn't even a star on the wrapper; my words weren't worth a thing. They never are. Still we tripped into a fluttering sort of love over artificial creamers and under Japanese lanterns in the mutable convolutions of the asian gardens crouching at the edge of exurbia. It was ordinary and transitory, and we swooped, somnambulant bats, moths around the illumination of translucent dances we understood would flicker and die moment by moment. She sang for me when I asked her not to, doll-sized violin crescendos and legato exhales twining the bending bamboo with the fountain bubbling twilight sounds. We leapt and leapt and leapt, and I concealed meaningless conveyances in throwaway allusions, hoping the rainstorm would tantrum at itself for just one day more and let us carry on our lily dalliances. My hands were getting cold, but I didn't pull away; each moment exhaled in and out of existence and the friction of resistance synthesized heat.
A/N: One-shot. I felt like writing something abstract for want of finding abstract reading material in an hour of flitting round the internet. The result? Half poem, half prose. Just enough of one or the other to make poetry lovers dismiss it for its form and prose lovers dismiss it for its lack of coherent content. My break from writing was stretching too long for my likes, so I basically openned up a document and typed as thoughts slunk through my mind.