A Story About Darkness
Maybe it’s the wind or maybe it’s the rain or maybe it’s both — making you cold — riding on the back of his motorcycle. Maybe it’s that you neglected to wear something warm. Maybe it’s your too thin socks. Maybe it’s the darkening sky that makes your mind wander. Maybe it’s the familiar blurriness of moving. The trees lose their color when they become silhouettes. You lose sense of your legs when your mind outlines your future’s possibilities. Your body becomes a silhouette. Your edges bleed into his body, the bike, the reflecting road, the potholes you avoid. Like spreading paint.
Maybe because your floral jacket doesn't camouflage you with the blossoms overhead. Maybe because it’s too early for roses. Maybe because your heels make you just tall enough. Maybe because you’re eager to listen. Maybe because you’re eager to open. The fountain in the park, the passing boy on his hover board, the cigarette he tosses on the ground — you see the background can be blurry when you’re standing still. Your hope bleeds into his words (when you know what you want, go for it; ask me why I’m sorry). Your hope bleeds into the cracks of the sidewalk, overwhelms the scattered pebbles, follows you at a distance as you walk home alone.
