Our Favorite Song

But my dear, the problem is I can’t figure out why

Our photographs turned out blurry

We wrote our letters in fading pencil

And I’m forgetting the words

To our favorite song

As if

I never

Heard it.

Watching Legend and writing away.  Not sure if this movie is horribly wonderful or wonderfully horrible.  Either way, my word count for the day is 2319, which is a good deal for me.

Counting Stars

Where the edge of the universe lay,

And all of the stars were counted and confirmed

Into proper categories to stay,

I found myself and a hastily packed suitcase

Standing in the doorway of a rented room.

As I watched the rain drip from my nose,

Creating dark craters in the worn carpet,

I contemplated just what birthed my woes.

And realized then that I was in that apartment,

And the scientific method said so,

All at the fault of you.

Satisfied with the flawed test results

I lay upon the bed to admire my faults

And stared out the lonely window.

There were no stars.

On the breeze that blew in from outside

I swore I smelt the grass upon we laid

That sweet spring night oh so long ago

When to the world I swore I’d love you

Until there were no stars left to count.

But look where that promise led, my dear!

Look how broken hearted I am as I lie here

Just as how to you I had lied that night.

But how was I to know that I wasn’t right?

Did we not deceive each other into believing

That what we had was not simply dreaming?

But now all the stars are numbered

And so are our days.

In my grief I never once cared to notice

That the warm shirt I wore was yours once,

Or that the ring on my left finger

Was of your promise a reminder.

In my blindness I cast my eyes to the walls

And noticed something peculiar.

In the smooth paint I saw puckerings

And I couldn’t decide what they were.

To feed the curiosity of my modern mind

I approached one like a cat to its prey

And was astonished at my find.

Believing it to be impossible,

I scratched off the old paint

And discovered a small star glowing faint,

The remnants of a child’s dream to confine the sky

To everything within their naive eyes.

Stickers on the wall to create free wishes,

Never once of their falsehood suspicious.

Around the room I scanned my eyes,

And finding yet more without surprise

I set about to scratching the rest free.

My fingers raw, nail ragged, hours gone,

I turned off the light with newfound certainty.

The darkness was gone, banished by the lights

So small, so fragile, but countless and bright.

My body shook, the tears ran freely

As quickly as shooting stars on a spring night

And everything that once was suddenly

Shattered.

No matter what computers had said,

No matter what scientists did to fill their heads,

No matter how long they peered through their telescope,

Nothing they found could have created this hope.

In all their wise blindness they had overlooked

A child’s secret dreams covered by paint.

And here was I, following their method,

Thinking myself to be perfected,

Giving up that endless chase for meaning

Thinking it to be so demeaning

When a child could show me how far I’d gone awry

Because there were still stars left to count in the sky.

I don’t sit next to anyone if it can be helped.  I like to save an empty space at the dinner table, on the lawn where I lay, and next to me in bed.

All so I can pretend what it would be like if you filled that void.

The Third Hour

The third hour was lovely, though not like the fourth,

But I suppose you already knew that.

All had grown still, frozen by the low sun;

Branches encased in their ice coffins,

The clouds gave the sky her veil,

And they wept for the loss of the mourning son.

I wish you could have seen it,

But you’d already left by then,

Gone somewhere warmer, I suppose.

Such a shame, really.

You missed the funeral procession,

All of its gaudy glory, all of its lies,

It was quite the sideshow.

But I suppose you already knew that, too.

It was from this parade that I wandered,

From that charade that I wandered.

I jumped the cable and fell into the leaves,

To me they whispered your song,

The sweet serenade you sang before you left.

I laughed in your memory

With the kind of joy that you would have,

And I cast off my shade and its weight.

Yes, the fourth hour was far more the lovelier

But now it’s the eleventh hour,

And I’d better get ready to leave.

- A Weiler

Rainbows

            On the morning of the first of June she awoke to the shattered pieces of pink sunlight reaching between the yellowed plastic strips that covered her window.  Giving the cord a violent tug only the groggy unaware mind of the mourning could give, the blinds shuttered upwards, allowing bits of sunlight to reunite with their lovers.  As a sign of gratitude, the beams took to the crystal that dangled from her window and returned as pieces of rainbows.  They danced across her pale face, the white walls, her dusty sheets, little pieces of fire with motions like falling stars.  For perhaps what would be the only time that day, she smiled truly, mingled her fingertips amongst those radiant shooting stars.

            As she watched them dance, listened to the clattering of the crystal against her window, she remembered a place three thousand miles away, a face three thousand miles away.  The rainbows were her wings, they flew her away, and taught her how to move like the stars.  In their colors she saw her home so far away.  The red was the first rose of spring time, the orange the fur of the fox; the yellow became the beech tree’s leaves in the fall, and the green the lush beauty of neverending woods; blue no longer existed but was instead the haze of the mountains that came before the indigo of the sunset, that came after the violet of the sunrise.

            The rainbows no longer existed but were floating memories and dreams, pictures of everything she loves condensed into bits of fire on her walls.  They comforted her, gave her hope.  Three thousand miles no longer seemed so distant, in fact she could buy a plane ticket and be there the next day, hop a train and be there in a few, fill her tank and be there by car within a week.  Or she could just stare at the lights and be there now.  Soon enough she’d be home, there was time to wait and let the longing grow.  Soon enough she’d be where the rainbows promised.

“Writing is not a serious business. It’s a joy and a celebration.”