#67

dissipating colors, petals thrown over the side of the earth, melting slowly down, bursting into blue black flame.
warmth and the laughter and the day.
fighting, pulsing through pinholes, rolling over earth, folding into ocean.
mystery and tenderness and night.
balloons let loose to the sky, a wash of scent in the heat.
anger and fear and touch.

wide-eyed, watching the repetition, feeling the awe at the passing of time.

as if you aren't the day.
as if you aren't the night.

#66

the train blew the final whistle, let out a slow, apathetic groan. breathing heavily, like a weight lifter on his final set, it inched slowly forward, aching. its passengers jerked, then settled back, eyes on newspapers and magazines, a few squinting through the dirty windows, looking for a reason to stay.
a pair of eyes on the platform, bleary, wet and smokey, searching for two brown, shaded eyes, long since buried in text and dull from lack of hope.
the tracks shuddered, a race of goosebumps following the cars, subsiding into the distance.

#65

most of the time, he had projects haphazardly thrown across the house. a broken stereo, purging itself on the living room table, obscure tools occupying chairs and stools, tired graphing paper labeled "blueprint ideas" crumpled near the trashcan.
prodigy. brilliant. genius. these words excited him as much as tying his shoelaces in the morning. they were dead by now. words that denote nothing.
potential. a word worth discovering.
like his crumpled papers, like his marriage, like the sonata he began 10 years ago... it was all unfinished.
for all his knowledge, a thought, an idea, had never taken him full force, left him rushing and gasping, left him sleepless with excitement.

#64

He had looked something like the Campbell's soup kid in his youth. Chubby, ruddy cheeks, short swatches of patchy blonde hair, thick wrists and a soft tummy. And he had been happy- always giggling- never making jokes, but never the brunt of them either.
Of course, it was sooner rather than later that societal stereotypes got to him. He lost the soft ruddiness, the awkwardly boyish smile, straightened the crooked teeth. A personal trainer, GQ Magazine subscription, and 4 types of diet pills later, he looked nothing like the boy she grew up with.
As his popularity spiked, she watched his agonizing decline.
For two years now she had followed this friend-turned-stranger in the magazines and tabloids, watched stories she hoped weren't true. Looked through the accompanying pictures she hoped were staged.
she had loved him, of course. Loved him unknown and chubby and poor and happy.

#63

she didn't know why, but all day she had been plagued by a feeling of vague apprehension. beating quickly at irregular intervals, her heart prompted heavy exhalations and rapid fire gasping, clinging to oxygen, the veins standing up, pulsing, cheering for more MORE.
and just as strangely, the return to calm, to peace.
she'd heard that stress could kill a girl, but a girl like her? Strength. it was her motto.

Scream it from the mountain tops, but sometimes mottos are how you want to be percieved and not what you really are.

#62

i was nervous to take him to my mother's 60th birthday party. two thousand miles puts damper on regular visits home. it's not that i was worried about her. my mother loved everyone with a fanatical loyalty.
he was a different story. embarrassingly wealthy, he had become another doctor in a long line of prestigious family members. it was difficult even now, to think about that first visit to his parents' home. when i walked in the door, i didn't take off my shoes; didn't think of it- my mother had always welcomed people into the home quickly come in! come in! and she specifically bought carpet that wouldn't show dirt and stains. the visit went downhill from there.
and here we were, my brilliant and beautiful doctor, ready and willing to meet my mother, two-time high school junior who earned her GED at twenty-two years old.
we parked far down the street; it was already full of cars and our front yard looked like we should have salesmen showing us great deals on used vehicles.

through the fanfare and cheap party balloons, he said to me that he was envious of my childhood. his parents never had 5 people they could call true friends. "i would give my whole education to have love in my life that she does."
i hugged him and looked towards my mother, who was beaming at a new "welcome" sign she had recieved. "yes. it is rather decadent isn't it?"

#61 (oops, i had two #58's)

pretty red ribbons circling the post, trimmed in flashes of silver tinsel. light washed over the balcony, false daylight from the house within.
across the road, an orange and green palm tree made of bulbs strung together with translucent cords. a cry for warmer weather, perhaps, surrounded by heavy laden evergreens.
air filled likenesses of song subjects, swaying back and forth in the wind, electricity running through them.
all false displays of cheer, all missing laughter. all missing the point.