April 17, 2012

Fly Away

Wheels on a skateboard,
he road the asphalt like a steady wave.
The San Francisco sky had approached nightfall
and eggplant colored clouds hung like puppets in the sky.
Wisps of wind as their strings
dancing along the brim of his hat.

In a house, time ticked
like the the click of her tongue.
She sat arms folded impatiently as
the smell of carrots hung in the air,
their shavings wound in the sink
like orange caterpillars, 
 sleeping silently in an oversized metal cocoon.

He passed the colored buildings
painted doorways and crooked roofs
that rose and fell like the gentle breath of a high school memory,
a love that was as short as a shoe lace
but one that fiercely wound itself around his heart
and cut into him like barbwire.

At night they'd escape in each other's touch
 but neither knew their minds both wandered to distant thoughts
of forgotten lovers, and fading dreams
of uncharted territory and
the spreading of fragile wings
against the risky winds of the unfamiliar. 

"I'll be home by 7:30," he'd said
but the loop of infinity had made its way 
onto her clock over an hour ago
and had broken easily,
evoking in her a need for escape 
and dropping out the bottom to form a 9.

 And she watched as single digits
took turns as 9's sidekick.

4, 5, and then 6
6o seconds,
then change.

He rode
and she waited,
60 seconds,
then change.

And the carrots got soggy,
and the clouds fell behind a curtain of black
and when he opened their door 
with the tick of the clock
all he found was a note of goodbye

and a whole room of butterflies. 

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