Ripples from Raindrops: Charlie
By: ShinigamiForever

I'll come back some day and there will still be coffee stains on the walls, layered blue and gray.

Unabridged histories of our lives are spelled out like theorems in your brain. Make that martinis.
Never shakes, only stirs, like the guilty blondes in Bond movies who light cigarettes on their lips.
Disarray of notebooks scattered pens and the brown portfolio we all shook our heads at and asked Why?
Even if there was an answer, I doubt you would have given it to us. That will be the way I
remember you, dodging answers left and right. Right, as in the direction, not the argumentative
stance you take. For you are always right, and that is what makes you vague when you are
too solid.
And I can remember when she walked up to me and asked me about genius.
Never mind that I don't remember how I answered. The point is that she asked; the definition I gave
dissolved into the continuity of a pattern steeped in mints and littered with foil wrappers.

Now rest your head down, mon ami (or is it mon amour, or was it neither, was it a) dream
of other things, things besides picture frames and jet ink black sky where you were and are once a god.
Though my modern mathematics book will still deem you a god, one day we too shall forget, forget the
"he she it you me we us I" affair
I made it out to be. Some day we shall look back and forget the times we looked for
names, the old names, the names we used to call out to call back help.
Give your glory to your eyelids, waste not the passing of time, one day we will not look for you anymore.

Then you or the thing we have defined to be something but nothing at the same time, will
Hurry back to a time where there was chalk dust in the air, on the blackboards, on
everything but the fluent language of mathematical gods that did not wait for their disciples. Maybe
nobody will remember but you. You will stand in that empty classroom. The chalkboards will laugh at you.