picaresque
You are the wind beneath my wings, and my solid ground. My sunshine and my rain. The apple of my eye. My lift-off and my anchor.
The wind was in her hair and the sun warmed her arms. She reclined with her bare feet up on the dashboard, feeling the music and watching the horizon as they sped along the desert highway, going anywhere.
If I stopped believing now. If I stopped hoping now. If I stopped praying now. If I stopped wanting now. If I stopped giving now. If I stopped taking now. If I stopped living now. Would I be punished?
They slither up brick walls and wrap around my neck, in my dreams, the vines do a rain dance. Reinforcing the prison gates that encapsulate my darkness. Light. All of the time, only light. Dare to rear the ugly heads that live inside and you may as well kiss your friends goodbye.
He sat and stared out the window, finger greased and fly-inhabited, blinds open half way. He watched the unfamiliar feet scurry by as they chased kids, rushed to business meetings and lunch dates, subway stations and then back again. The coffee was cold by now and he still hadn't touched the bagel. His stomach grumbled but he waited longer.
There was a smudge on her face from the mascara she wiped away when the tears made it run. Sometimes, she realized, it's better just to cry than to say anything at all.