Still The Same Shape
"We love the drama of summer, that's what it is." You are holding court. We're in the park that your house overlooks, entirely failing to have a picnic by even the most tenuous of definitions. Like an advert for a staying in touch with friends this summer, now with unlimited text messages and a free phone; the grass is green, the sky is blue, a frisbee whirls motionless overhead and, in the background, by the perfectly cast shadow of a tree, a child is caught in the convulsions of an exaggerated laugh.
There's something about swaying, isn't there. Something about events like this, with their chandeliers and wooden floors, with the music light in the air but viscous and tangible, that makes everyone trustworthy. A stranger stands opposite and tells us to move in, closer. You look at the floor in front of my feet and I roll my eyes. The stranger smiles at us and walks away. There's something about running for a bus when it's cold outside that feels like the only option. Especially as it drives away, leaving us laughing like public transport part-timers.
You're looking up. A glance at the heavens to the uninitiated, an attempt to look over your own head in fact. Trying to look behind you, at the house you are now leaving behind, at This Chapter Of Your Life. You have been talking to me as the motion blur dissipated. Listening to you talk is one of my favourite things in the world. Your body language is a mixture of timidity and anger, an unnecessary apology wrapped in frustrations and fury, at a need for things to be corrected all over the world, the entire world but mostly, right here, in your life, right now. The window above you catches the sun and the resulting glare renders the scene almost allegoric.
That's how I used to see them. Now. A photograph of a ghost and I, in a cold looking park. A snapshot of a shadow and its shadow looking awkward, in a room I can't place. The last captured image of another's farewell. Pictures of events and activities, all of them starring the silhouette of a lost friend. The outline, recognisable, but only from a certain distance. Get up close and you can tell something's now missing.
There's something about swaying, isn't there. Something about events like this, with their chandeliers and wooden floors, with the music light in the air but viscous and tangible, that makes everyone trustworthy. A stranger stands opposite and tells us to move in, closer. You look at the floor in front of my feet and I roll my eyes. The stranger smiles at us and walks away. There's something about running for a bus when it's cold outside that feels like the only option. Especially as it drives away, leaving us laughing like public transport part-timers.
You're looking up. A glance at the heavens to the uninitiated, an attempt to look over your own head in fact. Trying to look behind you, at the house you are now leaving behind, at This Chapter Of Your Life. You have been talking to me as the motion blur dissipated. Listening to you talk is one of my favourite things in the world. Your body language is a mixture of timidity and anger, an unnecessary apology wrapped in frustrations and fury, at a need for things to be corrected all over the world, the entire world but mostly, right here, in your life, right now. The window above you catches the sun and the resulting glare renders the scene almost allegoric.
That's how I used to see them. Now. A photograph of a ghost and I, in a cold looking park. A snapshot of a shadow and its shadow looking awkward, in a room I can't place. The last captured image of another's farewell. Pictures of events and activities, all of them starring the silhouette of a lost friend. The outline, recognisable, but only from a certain distance. Get up close and you can tell something's now missing.