Let’s All Swim in the Tears of the Nameless and the Glorious
I'm writing realized with an S on Saturdays, Sundays, and days that rhyme with angst. There's a spot on my upper thigh that enjoys being pale and refuses to change no matter how many times I rub chunks of sun across it. I'm waiting for shadows to stop waving their silly little arms and crawl out of the pool.
I throw a chair into the pool and yell, "Let's sail!" A cat climbs out of my ear and blinks. I sail to a faraway island, aka the jacuzzi, and imagine the days that have disintegrated.
The year leapt and crashed into a horde of children constructing glass coffeehouses. The children stomped their feet, attempted somersaults, and stuck out their tongues. After 9 minutes, the children showed their teeth and hugged one another. Then, a bomb crushed the children. The bones lay still on shadowy roads while dusk collided with pools of red mouths frozen into O's.
I'm drinking café au lait and realising my knack for embarrassing myself is running amuck on the internet in the form of Alexander Pope. Faceless men in front of computer screens open their mouths in chortles, high fives echo through the corners of cyberspace, fist pumps galore.
My mother says she supports my endeavors, but, at night, she kneels behind bedroom doors and prays for a miracle. Tonight, the sky is still and scattered with twinkling lights and emotion. The trees sway softly with warm winds while a cat crouches and disappears into black. The ghosts of children dip their toes into dark waters and dance under the bloodless moon.
