And I finally understand “purple mountain majesties,” as I sit here on my perch.
And behind me: that woman with the white hair, like sails of the boats in the bay, or wings of the swans in my mind, red pocketbook; red lips dripping with hope.
I think someone forgot her.
Or maybe she is content. Maybe she sees the world’s majesties, too….
But her swiveling head tells me otherwise.
I ask if she has a pen to lend me. Her eyes become glass as her third eye scrunches into an asterisk:
“No, dear, I’m so sorry. I don’t….”
My teeth and tongue lick the air with sympathy: “No worries, ma’am. Thank you.”
I slide back to my rock and ask the slivered moon for her company. I feel regret that everybody leaves with the sun, as if the show is over. But with skies still blue, and moon always dancing, it has only just begun.
I sniff the cold in. Vicinity barren; If I were to fall, nobody would know. I would slip beyond this world and find an orchestra of silence in the sea.
I sit here wondering where the birds go.
Turning my head right vertigo lops me upside the head. The waves have rocked my mind to the point where I feel I might actually fall.
Somehow, that would be alright. Somehow, I would be okay.
Because maybe then I won’t have to see the vivid pained look in people’s eyes. Like that beautiful abandoned woman with the wing-white hair and her hopeful red pocketbook.