meow
To One of the Many Lakes
We were on our way to some fancy event. Riding in her car, the seats smell of vanilla and tobacco. Me, wearing a sweater and tie, her wearing a black dress framed in accents of yellow. She looks lovely beyond measure and doesn't seem to know it.
On the stereo, bluegrass and songs about dying men and their motorcycles, how love had gone wrong so many times before, but this time was different. I think we both knew other wise, the plaintive cry for redemption was too sweet a sound, these men and their strings could never give up the ways that had afforded them the currency to make such bittersweet songs. One wonders, if perhaps they ruin their lives and wreck their loves, solely for the depth it grants them. I could listen, but I could not understand.
Outside, the day was green in that deep vibrant way that only occurs when the sky no longer wishes us to be without its presence. It was barely raining or rather just charging the air with moisture, filling every step with a hundred strange drops. Grey clouds hung low on the horizon, separate entirely from the ones above. Be they from fog or smoke, I could not tell, but know only that the world seemed alit by harmless fire.
Each avenue past, I'm walking through her memories. I've circled by where she once got coffee. I've seen the house's her father has built. I try and take it in. It's so marvelous to watch a place with a person who shares so much of its history. To see an overpass turn from an object into part of someone's life, this is the spirit of memory. And as she speaks I can almost see the road colored with her recollections. I see things I could not have seen, moments that only half existed, created in the space between her voice and my ear.
Halfway there, I'm informed. And suddenly, I want to kiss her. This is not a strange desire, though it feels as if I have never thought of it before, so sudden and wholly I feel it, as if the idea had never fell upon my brow, as if I had not felt her lips before. Moving forward too quickly, the seatbelt dug sharply into my neck, making my flailing movements fruitless and embarrassing. Cursing, I unbuckled my belt and planted a clumsy one on her cheek. Smiling, at least it feels as if I must be, I return to the music and the rain and road ahead.
We were on our way to some fancy event. Riding in her car, the seats smell of vanilla and tobacco. Me, wearing a sweater and tie, her wearing a black dress framed in accents of yellow. She looks lovely beyond measure and doesn't seem to know it.
On the stereo, bluegrass and songs about dying men and their motorcycles, how love had gone wrong so many times before, but this time was different. I think we both knew other wise, the plaintive cry for redemption was too sweet a sound, these men and their strings could never give up the ways that had afforded them the currency to make such bittersweet songs. One wonders, if perhaps they ruin their lives and wreck their loves, solely for the depth it grants them. I could listen, but I could not understand.
Outside, the day was green in that deep vibrant way that only occurs when the sky no longer wishes us to be without its presence. It was barely raining or rather just charging the air with moisture, filling every step with a hundred strange drops. Grey clouds hung low on the horizon, separate entirely from the ones above. Be they from fog or smoke, I could not tell, but know only that the world seemed alit by harmless fire.
Each avenue past, I'm walking through her memories. I've circled by where she once got coffee. I've seen the house's her father has built. I try and take it in. It's so marvelous to watch a place with a person who shares so much of its history. To see an overpass turn from an object into part of someone's life, this is the spirit of memory. And as she speaks I can almost see the road colored with her recollections. I see things I could not have seen, moments that only half existed, created in the space between her voice and my ear.
Halfway there, I'm informed. And suddenly, I want to kiss her. This is not a strange desire, though it feels as if I have never thought of it before, so sudden and wholly I feel it, as if the idea had never fell upon my brow, as if I had not felt her lips before. Moving forward too quickly, the seatbelt dug sharply into my neck, making my flailing movements fruitless and embarrassing. Cursing, I unbuckled my belt and planted a clumsy one on her cheek. Smiling, at least it feels as if I must be, I return to the music and the rain and road ahead.