the skeleton keythey wore clear plastic rain jackets with hoods like the girls in elementary school, walking to their friend's house from their's, only two houses down.
the light skinned women is old. her face is wrinkled and smeared of age. under her plastic rain coat lays a dress that looks like a sheet from way-back-when. she wears old beaten tennis shoes with knee-high dinged socks, looking as though she walked through many puddles. her hair is white and grey, tied in a sloppy bun with peices of it spwaled over her forehead and laying over her ears. she holds an umbrella over them both, even though the sky is blue, not event the distance painted with the littlest streaks of darkness. but she holds it. steady, as if waiting for the pour to come down over them. like a pessimist waiting for bad news.
the darker skinned women had a body to make her seem young, but her face looked as if she was of age ; what having no roof can make a person look like is beyond any of us with decent walls. her raincoat
au revoir.and you make my heart glow, resplendently through pale skin,
like a sun during gloam. i couldn't ask for much more, could i?
up is where you took me; everything seems simpler in the clouds.
if i could just stay for a while, i bet i'd have an epiphany,
and i bet it'd be about you.
reality has always hit me spontaniously - a piano in the face.
and it's always nonsense.
i have seen the real truth, and it doesn't make sense.
maybe it's not supposed to.
everyday at exactly 11:11 am and 11:11pm. i make a wish.
it's always the same three wishes.
"i wish i knew what to wish for."
"please, please, save me. help me, please."
venturing alone by a waterfall in serene but silent woods.
what surrounds you? what do you smell?
where do you go, which tree do you make a turn at?
what do you see to make you cringe, or smile, or do nothing?
i know the answer: peace.
only at nighttime o i give mysef permission to have those thoughts.
those thoughts of eath, and lonliness and sadness and
we are kids.wrinkles,
deep within the creases were
a pattern of x's
grazes aceross the surface.
oh, "you are soft." oh, you are.
there is a petting,
marble white, silk soft.
yes, you are.
tiny hairs of ink
sprout from your surface
and flow in the oxygen
emerging from two light open doors.
breath is pulled and pushed.
bumps have formed.
but you are still fluffy.
over the hills and through the river.
a run way of cotton soft floors,
eventually leading to
a thin surface with something hard beneath.
your skin is
c'est chouette.there's a tree with a hole in it at the entrance to our complex. we used to leave notes in it for one another until Mr. and Mrs. squirrel popped in. (i'll never forget my shock when i was face to face with that mama.) but even then, we left the notes in a camoflaged spot next to the tree. i loved that everyday. day as horrid as could be, i would get off that bus, go to that tree, and smile. always.i kept all of your letters in a manilla folder between my chemistry and grench text books, so noone would see it. i reread them so many times, even memorized some.
you numbered them. i adored the fact that you thuoght it important to add that number. never once was it missing, never once was it incorrect, never once was it erased and rewritten. it was always perfect, as were you. i dated mine. i gess that in essence it was the same thing. but i countlessly messed up. now, i didn't forget, i just killed a family of erasers.
what did we even talk about? the weather?
school? just day by day thin
white chocolatemy dream is to live near you.
i would perch on your window sill like a resplendent mockingbird and hum along with you
while you strum your strings and sing your words of emotion that you share with me.
and as an alice i will whisper - and have the right to wisper - "alice and virgil" quietly to myself,
away from your ears, but close to mine.
and we will sit humming, sipping our apple juice and nibbling our gummy bears, two perfect peas.
i want to taste the ground with my feet, because i have the grace of a butterfly, an alice.
it will taste like fresh rain from april's showers. salty. but i will taste it some more, because that is what i'm made for.
i can say "we alice's" and explain to strangers how alice's do not fly; they soar,
leaving behind long bilowy stardust trails sprinkled in the moonlight's rays. how they do not stray from their paths.
i want to be a beauty. i'll clean my wings so that their white is pearl and their blue is sky,
because bone and ocean don't flatter as
A Short Story Wind whistles, rummaging through the branches of robot trees. Sharp, thin metal slices through quick air, and it hisses in return. The sounds pick up and my hair flows high, fervently in the wind.
"Alright, alright. Calm down already."
....Silence. That happens to me a lot. I like to think the wind loves me, because it always answers when I call it. No one else does.
"Okay..you can continue." The hissing and whistling and slicing and blowing commense almost immediately. Shiny leaves quiver with irritation as i snuggle down into my thick blue scarf and cotton jacket. I'm hoping for warmth. It doesn't come. These were my ultimate dilemmas; the wind loved me, and the weather didn't.
I trudge through thick snow. "This will be a quick run to the store and back." is what I told myself. God, was I always wrong. Though, on the bright side, this did give me some unplann