a loop of yarnAnd so it came to pass that the snow fell much in the same way a stomach does when it is whispered cruel words. So often the color white is said to be innocent and clean, but as the powder, beautiful as it is in the air, begins to stick to the ground, to the faces of walls, to the ring of your pantlegs, you find yourself scowling with each new dithered heap of black slush that you have to step in. I suppose that's the way of things - everything that is soft and true becomes filthy and sickening. The skin of the immaculate virgins sags as gravity kneads their faces, the apple falls off the branch and rolls to the ground to rot into a brown cadaver, the cosmos collapse under their own purplish clouds as another burning star super novas and becomes a mist of gases and dust.
It persists in coming down and it eventually becomes the repeated scrolling background of a cartoon on the television. It seems as though everything acts in the same way as snow - a repetitious cycle of events and imag
old days clearThe news folk say it will snow tonight, so my father, this morning, suggested I fuel up. I didn't do what he said, but I heard him. Snow used to always mean bad things for her. Her parents never much liked to heat the house so she'd always be shivering under her blankets. Those were the good old days.
I say that a lot now. I'll prop my head up on a stilt-like arm and sigh and just say, "I miss the good old days."
I hope it doesn't snow for her well-being. I honestly mean that. It's what I always think about when it snows - "Boy, she must be feeling miserable with all this cold." I remember those days where she'd huddle up so close to me and comment on how warm I was. My hands would get cold though so I'd seek out what little shelter I could. I'd always put my hand on that part just above her hips, it was so warm from the mass of tissue and organs that it could fight away the worst frostbite. She'd scream and make the most angry face at me, that's a knee-jerk reaction. I'd apologize and
buried in the oceanEvery weekend is a blackened sin to me. I hate it. I loathe the weekend. I am completely alone, I'm the final cloud in the sky while the others have departed to the ground to mingle among the breathing. I miss the days of companionship. I miss the days of a close friend, I miss the days of a love. I miss watching her stand on linoleum and debate out loud over which bizarre drink she should buy at the grocery store. I miss lying on my bed and hugging her when she'd come over.
The thing that I hate most is that my mind and my heart and my decisions are an enigma even to myself, but she always seemed to understand me. Granted, I look back and see a cess-pool of mistakes. I know I'm not perfect. I don't strive for perfection. But god damn it, if these weeks and months of emptiness have given me anything, it's a mirror to look at myself in, a mirror that won't lie to me. I'm a rude, inconsiderate, self-righteous asshole. I'm boring and predictable and lazy.
"So, are you going to take me out
twinkle meteorite, wake me upEvery night I sit in the dark and stare at this illuminated screen. I string words together like a young girl puts beads on a necklace, all in an effort to make some perfect sequence that inspires the cosmos to turn the tide in my favor. Of course, it never works but I can't give up.
I'd prefer to wake up early. I can then get to school with time to spare. She'll see me walking, headphones over my ear canals, hands in my pockets, head down watching my feet alternate in the same way that a piston repeats its process over and over in a machine. I hate to step on cracks. It makes me feel odd when I walk on non-colored tiles. I always say, "You get one step on non-colored tiles, if you do two in a row, your life is over as you know it." Many times I have taken two steps on non-colored tiles. I guess that means I died a long time ago.
Sit out on the porch and look toward the trees. The sparrow is perched on an alabaster branch which hangs downward a bit, being constantly pressured by gravit
it's like glass in your eyesEven if I could clear my throat and ask the question, I'd know the answer.
"Hello ma'am, can I help you with anything?" She doesn't like that question.
"No, I'm just looking."
And she'd turn around and walk out the door. People like to look at clothes because they always change but they never look back. You don't gotta say a thing to them as they sit in their display case. Scoff at the ones you hate and smile at the ones you like, it's no different to them.
"Close your eyes,
the dark outside can't hurt you,
and I'll never desert
So close them tight,
the stars are so glad
they've found you,
and all the blankets that surround you
shine their light,
shine their light.
So rest your head,
and I'll be watching
from the doorway
as you slip into a perfect
And morning will come
in all its simple glory,
and you will find
And I will be there,
standing in your shadow,
knowing that you once
There are caves out