the clouds loom overhead
depleting masses of water,
slowly crying over the dusty ground.
there's a boy on a bridge,
watching a river swim beneath him
imagining himself swimming,
taking the loneliness away.
there's a girl lying on a porch swing,
watching the river swiftly pour down, carrying
the tears of heaven away
and hers.
he takes a walk from the bridge
and crosses two streets,
with a notebook in his hands,
spiral binding and blue cover.
she stands up and wants to
walk into town to see the library,
and grabs only a bottle
of fresh lemonade.
he makes it a mile,
sweat is replacing the rain, the crying above,
and he just wants to make it to
the forest at the end of the road.
she misses reading-
she hasn't read in quite some time,
no poem, no story, no venture,
nothing but the thoughts she owns.
he is thirsty, for anything,
as his throat dries and his legs weaken,
the sun now welcoming itself back out,
the warmth coming up.
a car passes on the left,
the wind behind a gentle friend for her,
and she notices a faint dot
about a mile away.
he sees this moving pixel, and grabs
for his glasses to see who it is-
what faint hair, reddened,
and what does she hold?
she is nearing him
and nervous, because now
she is a witness to his charming looks
and his saddened disposition.
he is worrying-
what should he say? to the girl
whose looks, even from a distance,
are catching him off guard.
she notices his sweat,
asks if he would like a drink
and he takes the bottle,
thanking her very kindly for her generosity.
he notices her eyes fall on the-
what, the seam of his shirt, the
veins of his arm,
or the writings in his hand?
she notices his tanned face,
the gentle muscles of his arms
seeming to force the liquid
inside of him.
he asks if she would
like to read the insides,
(his internal self, is to say)
and she would.
she asks him to sit on an old train-track post,
decaying alongside the road,
next to the river of a million tears,
suddenly becoming a thousand, ten, one, none.
and so was the afternoon of Saturday,
spent on a moist post lying parallel to a
rain-filled river,
and the warm air of summer
suddenly become a little more comforting.
Jun 24, 2012
Jun 24, 2012 at 3:11 PM UTC
the clouds loom overhead
depleting masses of water,
slowly crying over the dusty ground.
there's a boy on a bridge,
watching a river swim beneath him
imagining himself swimming,
taking the loneliness away.
there's a girl lying on a porch swing,
watching the river swiftly pour down, carrying
the tears of heaven away
and hers.
he takes a walk from the bridge
and crosses two streets,
with a notebook in his hands,
spiral binding and blue cover.
she stands up and wants to
walk into town to see the library,
and grabs only a bottle
of fresh lemonade.
he makes it a mile,
sweat is replacing the rain, the crying above,
and he just wants to make it to
the forest at the end of the road.
she misses reading-
she hasn't read in quite some time,
no poem, no story, no venture,
nothing but the thoughts she owns.
he is thirsty, for anything,
as his throat dries and his legs weaken,
the sun now welcoming itself back out,
the warmth coming up.
a car passes on the left,
the wind behind a gentle friend for her,
and she notices a faint dot
about a mile away.
he sees this moving pixel, and grabs
for his glasses to see who it is-
what faint hair, reddened,
and what does she hold?
she is nearing him
and nervous, because now
she is a witness to his charming looks
and his saddened disposition.
he is worrying-
what should he say? to the girl
whose looks, even from a distance,
are catching him off guard.
she notices his sweat,
asks if he would like a drink
and he takes the bottle,
thanking her very kindly for her generosity.
he notices her eyes fall on the-
what, the seam of his shirt, the
veins of his arm,
or the writings in his hand?
she notices his tanned face,
the gentle muscles of his arms
seeming to force the liquid
inside of him.
he asks if she would
like to read the insides,
(his internal self, is to say)
and she would.
she asks him to sit on an old train-track post,
decaying alongside the road,
next to the river of a million tears,
suddenly becoming a thousand, ten, one, none.
and so was the afternoon of Saturday,
spent on a moist post lying parallel to a
rain-filled river,
and the warm air of summer
suddenly become a little more comforting.
