We'll go from here
Kaela took me out this evening, a wonderful time was had by all. We paid our dues to the deceased, visiting the shell of her past, and that is all it now is. An outsider remains, in rubble, hours spent. The paved cracks and shrapnal scattered among steps, steeps, slopes, slates. Memories haunted me as each corner had a face, a voice, a scent that seemed to silently reverent... nothing. The counter of Jack in the Crack, pictures up on the wall, straws neatly striated, the same damn door that doesn't quite shut all the way. I walked down the yuppy's side of the street, Joe's laugh echoed in my head as I passed a balcony, and my fingers pressed the buttons that would supply all their needs. My ears strained for a familiar tone. I made my way up throught the levels, the light from inside was casted on a hard face turned soft turned away. Missed it by just a few, too late, don't bother looking up from fiction. Locked and set upon the chairs that look so different than in my dreams, thick... was the air. I swept tips along the edge, letting my eyes recall and remember, each hallway, each resonance, each emotion. Escalated myself down, down, down, and out into the cold and I parted to the left. Tiles blue. Slowly made my way across the street and in a trance was numb to the names... Toren, Rock, E... my hand on the door, but I couldn't bear to leave. So I lingered and read the wall, wanting, waiting.
That's when I realized I was late for my date with him, my photographer friend with long dark hair and a charcoal demeanor. I rushed through the crowds of possibilities, teasing a hope, and dashed into the bricks with... seven dollars and eighty... one cents. Damn. But much to my joy, I was blessed with a direction up the stairs and towards a handsome face. We did not talk during the foreign film, the agitation and poetry of Farci illustrated a young man's life, if you could call it that. My chair creaked, quite a bit. His hands were folded much like mine. I was graced with shallowness and ignorance, but not from his respect. We mocked. And smiled.
That's when I realized I was late for my date with him, my photographer friend with long dark hair and a charcoal demeanor. I rushed through the crowds of possibilities, teasing a hope, and dashed into the bricks with... seven dollars and eighty... one cents. Damn. But much to my joy, I was blessed with a direction up the stairs and towards a handsome face. We did not talk during the foreign film, the agitation and poetry of Farci illustrated a young man's life, if you could call it that. My chair creaked, quite a bit. His hands were folded much like mine. I was graced with shallowness and ignorance, but not from his respect. We mocked. And smiled.