True Luxuries. [to be cont.]

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Written by Nunyo Bidness
Tuesday, 06 May 2008

    This is funny business, sitting in threes like broken bicycle spokes and watching the bus drive away from down the street as I sink into two minutes earlier and play back the symphony of the morning. You totally were, she said, with brass knuckle lips and an affinity for getting into the pool toes first and smiling like you know what you’re doing because you’ve done this before. I haven’t. As the wind channels through a window and whistles under a slamming door soon about to slip into the past tense, there is a break in the wind section of that orchestra as obvious as a penny to a quarter. But then again, change has never been my thing.
    Redefinition is my hobby, like how a blowing tree will go back to just where it was before the wind started as soon as the wind dies down. Destroying definitions is yours. I’d sign my way through thousands of blank lines just to get a feeling of what it means to be you. I’d do it until my smile fit yours.
    They can measure the closest stars by taking a picture of the star, waiting six months, and taking another. The nearest star is so far that the distance from the Sun to the Earth doesn’t impact the problem until the hundred-thousandths of a decimal point. My feet are just two of a hundred thousand that are walking on cold asphalt or burning coals. Seeing you reminds me why my feet are cold and scraped. I wonder if the challenge is in the trillions of footsteps that it takes to reach that star, or if it is back where I forgot it, rounded down a decimal point.
    We are so separate but we’ve never been this equal, and if six months from now I’m not on exactly the opposite end of where this started, then I might as well wait for the next beginning.

Allan folds the paper into itself. He will sleep on it tonight.

Copyright 2008 Nunyo Bidness

Tags: True Luxuries. [to be cont.]