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Newport Pagnell

Arts / Culture ·

We met at the American, Canadian border. My smile you refuse to forget as I, your turns. You're weeping in the downpour of rain. Being tired of wait, I console you. "Nails worse than knives," I whisper into you ear. You collapse into gales of laughter while strange air brews in the sky. Waters beneath on mid stones run upstream with little jet streams that inculcate our moods.
The bridge provisos us a safe vertigo for balanced thought. All set I cross onto the land of the red maple leaf soil with a sleep that never seems to come. The terra sinks as I gaze upon the edgy rocklands. In cliff wards you seize your moment. It's been raining, you're beautiful and boisterous. I surrender. We look away in fun.

We glance at a road that is darkened by the rain. Now clear and visible we set our sights on other colours and on failed rails.
I lay my head on your soft head and it starts to rain again. Part of half, pots of collected rain and puddles I am in distant reality.
The town we're in and the home we're in is yours, memory filled. I am drawn to the tapestry on the wall. Turning music on to your fave setlist reminds me of home. On absent verse you mouth, " don't buy a house on a busy road, even if it's residential."
I nod in proclivity. "A proclivity for hard work," you add.

.. saying start anew has become old ...we continue from other convo ... from a disrupted mechanical error (the needle jumps).
And what is life and its movements? I respond. Christ abandons me in these things. I've come to meet you in the night...
you read from my prose and crones off a three subject notebook which you quickly grab from my hand. Also, which I've kept prepared for such occasion, nearly thumbed hole. Instant bookmark we language in mind. Oh! you will crown the crone with flattery any day, you say. Lays head on her pillow and we talk to each other in cinematic look undisturbed with commercialed silence as the music behind us simply becomes a faint noise. The night disappears.

We awake greeted by the ice sky and fogged grass, we see what our brain lets in. The rain has been relentless. But a month has gone by, autumnal winter has set in. We finally met for fate's sake, we murmur, we hum in harmony. The pity of destiny, even.
They say lightening never strikes at the same place twice. Glady, we toss away the book and long lived T.V. show (we held true & dear), "On Your Funeral," in which a character dies whereby making mourners, loved ones play a song aptly titled,
This is not a funeral. -FIN

Latest change: October 8th, 2016 03:51


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