You once told me that you wanted to run with me, across the tree-shaded slopes, to the hilltops just to have a taste of what you would always refer to as a real lover’s breath. I remember you doing an animated reenactment of what was going to be like when you pouted your lips kissing the clouds in the sun. You readied your pack and slung it over your shoulders, convinced even without a map or a plan, as you stood by the open door warming your palms with your own breath.
And the new day was breaking, your face was shrouded with the dark remnants of the night.
“Let us forget all about last night” you said. You looked so beautiful like the dawn. I knew I’d follow you.
The last nail was hammered down shut, we hear. Nameless boxes will be buried in the backyard for now. Salt will preserve, eventually.
For today will be like a tourniquet, it will be just like before you promised “no added preservatives”.
The funny thing about faith is that you lose yourself sometimes in the process or most if you are that lucky.
A solace, I would say.
I finally got you talking about it, for me, that is always a good thing. To talk.
More when there is not much else to converse about.
And in that amazing display of human feat, we almost believed that it can still be overturned.
Despite of apathy and miseducation.
And you whispered like it was an open prayer, that you hoped for your camera could capture cancer, truth, and suffering. All the time.
I leaned closer, sitting next to you on the steps of your front door, and looked at the universe which was inside of you. And it was vast, expanding.
The space between us allowed me to heave a deep sigh. And I was grateful for the chance, to leap without accord.
But I guess we are knit together by frequency and attuned with pure will. So, we went uphill, marched to muster courage for acceptance and discernment. We stayed up for hours where the sky hangs and the clouds glide.
Tonight, the city waits, and we will swift through beneath its feet and overhead, like a breeze that will fender off the dust that blanket the roof decks and the muddled streets.
It is time to wipe my glasses clean and replace the blunt pencil with ink.
7 thoughts on “Crimson Spectacle, Over Blue”
i always did. its just now that i think i had to say something. but its realy great.
Thanks for noticing D, i guess we feel the same way about why we need to write about them people 🙂
One tries, Thanks for dropping by.
i even imagine the scene. there is an unidentified emotion in every words written to this one
Beautiful, C. How rich this girl is for a friend who would look at her this way. Love the mix of abstract and concrete imagery.
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