She’s got everything she needs/she’s an artist, she don’t look back
The desultory evening breeze is marking maps in the air, like sequined spirals in glass marbles. The trees seem surrounded by the dreary feeling of accustomed darkness, cowering under the silent leaves like a witness to an unsuspecting stranger. The leaves are trying to convince them that perhaps the dark is not so bad if it comes on slowly, you have time to get used to it.
The metropolitan night is the silhouette of the half-moon against gritty glass buildings, neatly wrapped around the reluctant air. You lift your gaze from the concrete sidewalk and watch her resolute steps, she moves from the doorway like a messenger from radiant climes; you remember the words ‘lights will guide you home’ from a long forgotten song. She brings with her a broken waltz, hanging to the rainbow threads of her miniature jacket. The songs she has smuggled through porcelain walls, carrying them in a glass bag, making sure not to let anyone notice. These are the songs that shall cut with tender grief; these are the words that shall levitate in the congealed air you breathe.
She whisks a lazy wisp of hair off her shoulder while you brag of your misery. The night wears a veneer, trying to hold itself together like a flapping tent. For a brief enchanted moment, she weaves a porous cosmos with bejeweled words suspended like little constellations that you marvel. A chance witness to her words, even the night is jolted out of its despair and nods pleasantly, being addicted to momentary strands of cheery thoughts. Much like the resurgent smile on a sulking guest’s face when offered the dry vermouth, everything becomes illuminated in that universe she’s winnowed away from the outside world. Time’s running out, you end up measuring the lengths of her words against the indefinite seconds; a grain of sand, a speck of dust, a pinch of salt, you hope something blocks the hourglass’ throat.
She takes brisk, busy steps; the oblique, interlaced red bricks of the road quickly dissolving one into another; you can see them getting smaller as she pulls away.
The metropolitan night is the silhouette of the half-moon against gritty glass buildings, neatly wrapped around the reluctant air. You lift your gaze from the concrete sidewalk and watch her resolute steps, she moves from the doorway like a messenger from radiant climes; you remember the words ‘lights will guide you home’ from a long forgotten song. She brings with her a broken waltz, hanging to the rainbow threads of her miniature jacket. The songs she has smuggled through porcelain walls, carrying them in a glass bag, making sure not to let anyone notice. These are the songs that shall cut with tender grief; these are the words that shall levitate in the congealed air you breathe.
She whisks a lazy wisp of hair off her shoulder while you brag of your misery. The night wears a veneer, trying to hold itself together like a flapping tent. For a brief enchanted moment, she weaves a porous cosmos with bejeweled words suspended like little constellations that you marvel. A chance witness to her words, even the night is jolted out of its despair and nods pleasantly, being addicted to momentary strands of cheery thoughts. Much like the resurgent smile on a sulking guest’s face when offered the dry vermouth, everything becomes illuminated in that universe she’s winnowed away from the outside world. Time’s running out, you end up measuring the lengths of her words against the indefinite seconds; a grain of sand, a speck of dust, a pinch of salt, you hope something blocks the hourglass’ throat.
She takes brisk, busy steps; the oblique, interlaced red bricks of the road quickly dissolving one into another; you can see them getting smaller as she pulls away.
posted by thelostcause @ 1:52 AM
Comments: 6
