SarahsGurl
She wants to be something else. Two knuckles deep into the peanuts of someone else's life. She wants to shine like the glitter on Hollywood signs. She wants to blow kisses into the open mouth of twilight's sky, eyes wide, heart full of candy wishes.
She's still from the same old everyday. A new position would be fitting. A new horizon, inspiring. She muses that life was never meant to be lived in the same spot. So many highways to choose from. So much fuss with indecision. And so she sits atop her dreams. Conjures new skies inside her mind. Wishes for that train ticket, settles for the demise.
Someone is always in a hurry, and you can't help but wonder where they are going. What's more important than taking the time to look both ways before crossing a busy city street near an intersection where the light's gone bad? What could mean more than taking a moment to scour the sky for black birds wing, a stiff contrast to the magenta splashed with white? So much rushing toward asinine things, so many pieces of life just trickling away like spiders down a drain.
Because there's always room for one more, you flip your coin, cash your ticket, check your bags and tip the cab. And because there's something forlorn about rolling the flesh of yourself atop four wheels across barren city side strips you've never been before, tipsy of cheap bar wine and craving the feel of soft carpeted hotel rooms. The luckiest traveler is the one who doesn't end the night alone. Or maybe it's the most unluckiest is the one who kisses the lips of some desperate stranger in a shady corner, some sad other-wrldly person who wants to return to the land of home just as desperately as you.
He lights a cigarette, takes his place in line. The lyrics are written across his wrist, almost like an old tattoo, resurrecting, except perspiration is scrambling his vowels and there's no time left for rearranging words. His story is his song and he's not sure if this is the way entertaining is done but this club is a cash and he wants to check himself before the night runs out.
Nevermind the explanation left in letters. Nor the enunciation of some random word mispelled. Or the lines around one's eyes, made deeper by the mar of sadness. Or maybe it was laughter. You can't see what you don't look for. Likewise, when it comes to matters of disregard, you'll always find what you want to see. Such is the unwritten law of love, mishandled.
"Typical"
Opposite of the girl with the bright umbrella, handle poised across its handle like the stem of a flower she swirls between drops of rain, their substance more like dew or a delicate drizzle. Her waiflike figure spins in and out of traffic, bright bobby socks light as air between her steps. She looks like no one else on the street, tender heart of a child, fingers stained of paint. I imagine she lives in a secret world only she can create, her unlocked windows absent of danger,her morning tea never bitter.
"Classified"
Contained on the last page of a newspaper, or maybe the back flipside of a magazine cover. The too-small type with promises you can't quite read, you just drop your check in the mail and await the surprise miracle. Perhaps its someone's lonesome reverie: single white female with a love for vintage decor and cats, marriage comes equipped with Antebellum mansion.
"Regulation"
The idea of order. A routine. Almost in the way that night follows day, a circle that doesn't come undone. Except, perhaps someone, somewhere, steps out of line in ways the sky can't. How the moon momentarily jumps beneath the blanket-cover of cloud at sunset and you wonder whether or not the sun has gone.
"Emblem"
Something that signifies something else, not to be forgotten. Perhaps the sentimental appeal of an old movie ticket, or the receipt for a bottle of wine drank at a celebration you cannot fully recall. Maybe it's something as deeply keen as your grandmother's ancient engagement ring. Whatever the appeal, you pack items away in boxes without labels and forget from where such things originally began.
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