Here's the skinny... years from now, when every speck of memory of the Internet is forgotten, a man's aching heart bursts into flames and gathers dust. He mouths words of gypsy tongues longing for a good, sometimes collected, voice of this doe eyed girl (with make-up of course). "There was this time when everything fits the molds and crevices, I don't want those days over," he says.
Stories about parks and malfunction.
She wakes up drenched with sweat and the smell of wires. Another dream of tubes and codes in break neck speed. There's a cauldron of doldrums next to her bed, she stews it, mixing fragments of dreams about foot wars and trying to skip stones over the river; taking a deep breath she remembers. "Those who forget lose so much," she says.
She remembers fragments. He struggles to remember anything at all. Let's not make this happen.
Those same two people were walking at different time zones but staring at the same sky that evening, quietly sighing to themselves about lost space and life and love. "Their eyes speak volumes but what you don't topple over doesn't spill," the Moon says to the bright star of Summer.
"I have faith in them. She prays," was the star's only reply.
Sometime around June, the planets missing collision for the 4653216 time, still singing the blues with the most red dancing shoes, the momentum surging forward; the time came. Santa Claus just quit his job and he's giving away presents earlier this year.
"Bahamas may have sunk, but that doesn't mean we're sinking with it," he whispers. His voice is as hot as the season. He remembers.
"When day breaks, we'll fix it," she whispers back. Her breath is as cold as the season... and as close as humanly possible to his ear. She remembers.
At least, even for only this June day, they were together.
(Let's not make this happen.)
And at the soft whisper of the wind, listening to them, it whispers back, "Lifespan is their new forever."
A boy's choir sings. The walls speak. Shoes tap. The cross still hangs. The power turns off.
Stories about parks and malfunction.
She wakes up drenched with sweat and the smell of wires. Another dream of tubes and codes in break neck speed. There's a cauldron of doldrums next to her bed, she stews it, mixing fragments of dreams about foot wars and trying to skip stones over the river; taking a deep breath she remembers. "Those who forget lose so much," she says.
She remembers fragments. He struggles to remember anything at all. Let's not make this happen.
Those same two people were walking at different time zones but staring at the same sky that evening, quietly sighing to themselves about lost space and life and love. "Their eyes speak volumes but what you don't topple over doesn't spill," the Moon says to the bright star of Summer.
"I have faith in them. She prays," was the star's only reply.
Sometime around June, the planets missing collision for the 4653216 time, still singing the blues with the most red dancing shoes, the momentum surging forward; the time came. Santa Claus just quit his job and he's giving away presents earlier this year.
"Bahamas may have sunk, but that doesn't mean we're sinking with it," he whispers. His voice is as hot as the season. He remembers.
"When day breaks, we'll fix it," she whispers back. Her breath is as cold as the season... and as close as humanly possible to his ear. She remembers.
At least, even for only this June day, they were together.
(Let's not make this happen.)
And at the soft whisper of the wind, listening to them, it whispers back, "Lifespan is their new forever."
A boy's choir sings. The walls speak. Shoes tap. The cross still hangs. The power turns off.
.0507.
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