Passing into antiquity – I thought only then of the fireflies glistering in between the rail tracks – each absorbing a small ruminates of love in this post-modern world. The buildings are all replicated in a fashion sense of North by Northwest.
Passing an old building that had remained lost in time that aged about the region of A Glass Menagerie. It was all very Tennessee Williams. You quoted a phrase from Gertrude Stein where I much rather speak in words of E. E. Cummings. He is too hip you argue over sparkling water and cucumbers. The air is a toxic smell of rain, sunshine and paper mills. In the distance a mountain rises over the horizon and claims the lives at least three skiers each year.
It was Tacoma, Washington that stole love from me. A hard pressed day to find romance in its business center but at a small record store next to a strip joint you bought me The Police first album. I tried to pass this indignity off without too much trouble but knew if you had just spent that extra dollar and bought that Mingus album then maybe we would have had a chance.
It was Olympia then that had us sleeping on floors with flamenco pounding outside in this mid-July sort of exuberant heat. Down by the docks -- the smell of salt defined out smiles – we tried to hold together but knew that the wine had settled and the only thing holding love was a small string that could have expanded to rope if I had just let it. It was the sun and the clouds that fought for days imploring matters both existential and mathematical. The heat came as the sun rose to speak and your eye quivered and changed colors. I questioned if your wax wings could hold my glaze and then you fell like Icarus and I lost you then but I had won the debate.
As time progressed I found a certain hope for the loss of prophetic fate. Sabotage is not answering questions.
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