Nov 16, 2009 20:16
"We can live in an abandoned school bus.
I'll make stained glass windows out of butterfly wings
and the tinted light that bleeds through will dance and paint abstractly on our faces.
I'll keep it interesting, I promise. I'll be your very own enigma. Your puzzle. Your paradox."
My life is stale without you here.
The light that filters in through the windows is dusty and dim, the butterfly wings dried and brittle, hanging still like prehistoric skeletons.
I collect them all, placing them delicately in my palm, and I climb.
I stand on the top of our school bus, back to the west, face to the east, I close my fist. Feel the wings crumbling like leaves. Open my fist.
I take a deep breath then exhale. The powdery remains of my everything dissipate into the air, and I remember a long time ago when I wondered how it was possible for things to turn so dead.
Now I know. They just do.
My toes hang off the edge of the gaudy yellow metal.
"You're only 9 feet in the air. Have fun landing with your face in the dirt."
"Shut up." I say.
I jump.
and i find out you were right all along.