Rum Laden Present

"You're beautiful," he said. 

Twist and drip and arch. So delicate. Don't worry, it will all be loved and taken before it loses even an ounce of this enchanting fragility. There is no such thing as a pair of palms opening up and it spiraling out, bending each and every way as it is carried by half wind and half sky, away.

A humid room that makes it easy to play the game of forgetting for a handful of useful minutes. Wooden planks reach both up and down along each side, and he reaches out too. Clumsy fingers on lips.

"Can I kiss you?"

The air is bad in here. A negative aura. And it grows, fosters. Sometimes such an ugly setting can produce a beautiful energy.

Foot on the ground, a soft thud.

"You can't."

Dizzy eyes; they still follow.

Fingertip along black plastic, collecting dust. A new bounce to every step, along an old carpet and over carelessly tossed equipment. "What's this?"

Furrowed eyebrows, judgmental gaze.

Unbothered now, because the brand new gears have already begun to spin, sparking metal. A crooked, purposeful smile.

There it goes.

"I'll be leaving now."

A foot on the first step already. Slight turn of the neck, and, just as expected, met with lonely, pleading eyes. Mmm. Another lip curl for the road.

Who knew it would be found here? She certainly hadn't.

Watcher's Seat

          We all come to the realization at one point that nothing colossal about life can be changed, such as the possibility that it means nothing at all. However, that fact only changes the pain into a different kind of feeling, and if it was a pleasant one, I wouldn't be wrapped up in it every time I looked at the sky. Sometimes, despite the human race believing, and proving in many ways that we are superior to everything else, two or three birds fly across the sky, and with that, I feel that they've won the competition of coming closer to touching whatever it is that gives meaning to life by a long-shot. "They're stupid. They're cute. Good for making quills," we say. Then the bird, without looking at us with its black, beady eyes, arches its neck and dives a meter or two underwater, and bobs up again a few feet away. I always end up staring, in silence, and my eyes glaze over just a little bit, but they aren't little black beads.

          We try to teach each other so many lessons, and we each find ourselves believing that falling in love will take away these unpleasant feelings. Well, I'm waiting, and I'll try it. But if it doesn't work, and if after I'm done dedicating my life and writing to emotions of heartbreak and darkness and maybe even a scratch that lets light through, I'll be back on this uncomfortable stump in a forest's clearing, staring at changing, natural colors. If falling in love doesn't work, I'll sit and wait, and maybe another pelican will fly over my head and cry its ugly call as it flies off, maybe thoughtlessly, maybe not, towards the plum-tinted sky that I can only gaze at.