simplyjoyful
He was odd
Kind of abstract and quixotic
With his mismatched shoes
And a small gold earring
He walked like a broken marionette
All joints and bent strings
Certainly a site to see
On a Sunday afternoon
I want a patent for your love
A sticker and a certificate that says it is mine
I want to know that it is only me you love this way
That what we have is special
Rare
I want a patent for your love
A way to show the world how lucky I am
I want to shout at the top of my lungs and proclaim it
That I am yours and you are mine
Forever
I want a patent for your love,
A guarantee that another will not know it as I do
I want to feel safe, but I know the nature of your love
Like a bird over open water
Free
Marlbrook Avenue was your typical suburban street. Rows of homes with neatly manicured lawns, children riding bikes up and down the street. Everything was "just so." Except for one house...number 24. Although it looked like all the others on the exterior, number 24 Marlbrook Avenue was anything but ordinary, for you see, a murderer lived there. A cold-blooded murderer who was planning on striking again.
The force of the bomb was enough to propel him backwards into a nearby dumpster. Bits of ash and debris rained down upon his head, hot against his skin like fire.
"What the-" he muttered to himself as he slowly checked himself for injuries. There were none. Slowly, he sat up, trying to wrap his head around what had just happened.
And then he saw, not twenty feet away from where he lay, the man in the black coat.
"What do you want from me?" he cried in exasperation. "Just leave me alone!"
But the man in the black coat just smiled.
And then he was gone.
Running down 5th Avenue,
Shoving through crowds of men in suits and
Elbowing past old women as he
Tried to follow the bright yellow ribbon that
Bounced ahead of him, just
Out of his reach.
But he missed Her and
She got away, riding shotgun in a
Bright yellow taxi, Her
Ribbon floating out of the window, all
He had left of Her now.
I just kept playing the record on repeat,
Silently listening to every word.
Tears streamed down my cheeks,
Sliding over my lips and chin,
Falling on my knees.
She was gone.
And the scent of her hair was fading from my pillows.
And it was getting harder to remember the way she smiled.
And the bed felt too big without her.
And all I could think about was how I should have been looking at the road.
But nothing I could do would bring her back.
Grandpa wasn't a very good teacher. He was gruff, and quiet and very blunt. When I was a child, I didn't like being around him very much. He intimidated me, and I didn't like that I never knew what he was thinking. As I grew older, however, I began to cherish the silent moments I had with him. He taught me how to fish, whittle, throw a baseball, and shoot a bow and arrow. We didn't talk much, but we didn't have to, and I felt like I knew so much about him even though we barely spoke. Now there's a different kind of silence in my Grandpa's house. A cold, empty silence that means he's not there anymore. Sometimes I sit in the old rocking chair by the front porch and think of him, quiet, peaceful and calm as I rock back and forth, never saying a word.
I hate chalkboards. Every time the teacher writes on one I cringe a little inside. I keep waiting for the chalk stick to break and fingernails to scratch across the surface. Even now, the backs of my knees tingle just thinking about it. Thank god for white boards.
I remember a time when fireflies danced on our eyelashes.
I remember a time when a good summer's storm was the best place to kiss.
I remember a time when a cool ocean breeze carried all our troubles to another place.
I remember a time when you still loved me.
There's a little booth outside of the corner store on Main street. An old man with snow white hair sits there every morning, reading the newspaper. A sign on the booth says " Will talk about anything," and he waits for passerby to approach. No one ever does. Men and women walk by with blackberries and ipads, barely stopping to cast him a glance. They are right there in the present, but their technology has them existing in some other time, another place. They are there but not there, and the little old man knows this. But day after day he waits, hoping that one day someone will acknowledge his presence.