We stood where green turned to blue, watching the spectrum spin in all directions, caught in the spray of a garden hose. We heard the kaleidoscope tinkle mosaic out of the windows of old houses. Old homes. We were yellow and orange and purple and all the glint of silver and gold. And we knew where to put the shadowy black to bring out the fire in red.
Archive for the 'these small moments' category
A nearly true story that may not have happened to me. Or anyone else.
We fell in love in the span of a bus ride. Twenty minutes from my stop to the transit center where we parted. We weren’t reading the same book or magazine; we didn’t happen to realize we had the same playlist on our iPods. He simply asked me if I liked public transportation. He had a short grey coat. Green sneakers. I don’t remember his dark eyes or that flicker of a smile around his words. I don’t remember that he squeezed my hand through my mittens in parting. And maybe he does this every day: falls in love with another woman, absorbs her heartbeat into his chaotic solo drumbreak. I don’t know. It never matters in these affairs. I’ll see him tomorrow or the next day or three weeks from Sunday. I’ll find the release on my vocal cords and give him an answer.
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Coming home
The distance between home and home is 7,300 kilometres (give or take), and miles morph into minutes en route to hours per heartbeat. Chronology blurs and winds like the road at the top of a canyon during a rainstorm. Seconds cascade in silt-saturated rivulets over sandstone outcrops. Halfway has no meaning. Our breath takes its place in shape of lithology. We have raced across landscapes to arrive in this evening with grasshoppers scraping monumental sonatas.
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A Blank Piece of Paper
Perhaps we are among the last. To listen to the click of an analog clock and stare at the possibility within a blank page. Pen hovering and heavy with unformed phrases. We are searching for the story. The heart, the beat, the string of what runs along our bones. Amassing graphemes and morphemes in the crook above the thumb. They’ll tumble down the pen and fall into the curves and scrawls of repeating ink. We will shape the secrets into discernible code where we will disappear amid the snap of synapses behind our eyes.
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