(no subject)
every petal fell into the river in 4/4 time, swimming and hissing like newly lit matches.
matches that were loved and left, used and forgotten. "he loves me / he loves me not. he loves me", she whispered to her flexing fingertips. i'd heard it before, the song with no chorus. i had to stop walking to keep staring. had to stop breathing to keep listening. (a pinwheel in a windstorm. a prayer beneath the stereo.) her feet dangled from the bridge and grew into roots, which tapped and pried into everything in reach. she was safe and sound. "he loves me / he loves me not". my steps towards her were interrupted by the highway. the traffic of madly determined ants in single-file lines, thinking single-file thoughts and breaking single-file habits. i tried to explain over the hum of angry engines, "that's just mathematics, you know. it doesn't mean a thing". but superstition is all the rage. these words were swallowed up by the dance of the busy tires on the pavement. my legs grew iced and lifeless, and i slid to the ground like a dead willow branch. her eyes swayed, drunk with the anticipation of 19th century romance. only two guesses were left on the flower, but how could he not love her? she was flawless. every word she said played like a cassette waiting to be eaten. "he loves me/ he loves me not". i cupped my hands to my lips and begged her, "please, listen. forget this game. the one you pine for? he adores you. i can feel it." the sidewalk tasted of a ripe oil spill. my hopeful message ruffled her hair and stumbled down her back, a defeated nation of syllables and sadness. my embarrassed tongue rotted out of its home and crawled towards daylight in search of more useful residency. one verse left. "he loves me/ he loves me not". the cruelty of chance would be the undoing of this stationary beauty. i tried to speak, but my teeth sprang from my mouth like seizing dice. i tried to scream, but my throat went wild like a pelican's pouch. my heart bellowed, "he loves you!" just glance my way. "how can you know? he loves you. just ask. take this risk and run with it!" all the color was bleached from my sight. shadow scares in bright light. sign language at midnight. she crushed the stem into plant cells. a photoactive penitentiary. she split her limbs with a dull hatchet. the song ran down. the record player scratched and scathed as she let herself drop into the water. "he loves me not". i cried tears of clay and silt. such a waste. a perfectly wonderful waste. i turned over the remnants of my body, now held together by thumbtacks and glue, ready to die. satisfied in knowing that there would be nothing more vicious than this love. nothing stronger. nothing sweeter. nothing sadder. i found myself staring at a boy, lurching over the opposing side of the bridge. his digits splashed like vines, wrapping around every loophole and stronghold. he was safe and sound. in his tightly clenched hand was a flower of exactly the same shape as the drowning girl's. his voice poured out like rain. "she loves me / she loves me not".
matches that were loved and left, used and forgotten. "he loves me / he loves me not. he loves me", she whispered to her flexing fingertips. i'd heard it before, the song with no chorus. i had to stop walking to keep staring. had to stop breathing to keep listening. (a pinwheel in a windstorm. a prayer beneath the stereo.) her feet dangled from the bridge and grew into roots, which tapped and pried into everything in reach. she was safe and sound. "he loves me / he loves me not". my steps towards her were interrupted by the highway. the traffic of madly determined ants in single-file lines, thinking single-file thoughts and breaking single-file habits. i tried to explain over the hum of angry engines, "that's just mathematics, you know. it doesn't mean a thing". but superstition is all the rage. these words were swallowed up by the dance of the busy tires on the pavement. my legs grew iced and lifeless, and i slid to the ground like a dead willow branch. her eyes swayed, drunk with the anticipation of 19th century romance. only two guesses were left on the flower, but how could he not love her? she was flawless. every word she said played like a cassette waiting to be eaten. "he loves me/ he loves me not". i cupped my hands to my lips and begged her, "please, listen. forget this game. the one you pine for? he adores you. i can feel it." the sidewalk tasted of a ripe oil spill. my hopeful message ruffled her hair and stumbled down her back, a defeated nation of syllables and sadness. my embarrassed tongue rotted out of its home and crawled towards daylight in search of more useful residency. one verse left. "he loves me/ he loves me not". the cruelty of chance would be the undoing of this stationary beauty. i tried to speak, but my teeth sprang from my mouth like seizing dice. i tried to scream, but my throat went wild like a pelican's pouch. my heart bellowed, "he loves you!" just glance my way. "how can you know? he loves you. just ask. take this risk and run with it!" all the color was bleached from my sight. shadow scares in bright light. sign language at midnight. she crushed the stem into plant cells. a photoactive penitentiary. she split her limbs with a dull hatchet. the song ran down. the record player scratched and scathed as she let herself drop into the water. "he loves me not". i cried tears of clay and silt. such a waste. a perfectly wonderful waste. i turned over the remnants of my body, now held together by thumbtacks and glue, ready to die. satisfied in knowing that there would be nothing more vicious than this love. nothing stronger. nothing sweeter. nothing sadder. i found myself staring at a boy, lurching over the opposing side of the bridge. his digits splashed like vines, wrapping around every loophole and stronghold. he was safe and sound. in his tightly clenched hand was a flower of exactly the same shape as the drowning girl's. his voice poured out like rain. "she loves me / she loves me not".