Fragments pt. 2 - collections

Possums confidently scurry around our heads then cower to the flick of a light switch. My nerves are clean and polished from morning activity. I do not seek vengeance in peaceful chaos. Lattes bring me back to our first encounter. We were born from ten hour-long walks with over-caffeinated conviction. His finger glides across 'The count of monte christo'. Kids laugh and parade around the garage doors. My pen slithers through a jungle of words. The alphabet plays hide and seek with my heart. I wish I could connect the dots. He clips his lips to the tip of his cheeks and reaches for my swollen fingers. I need someone to soak out all the words so I can store them in a small bucket to reach into when needed. 

He glides his hands across the steering wheel. Round and round, we collect ornaments of time and place them gently on our growing branches. They will strengthen someday, I'm sure. Be patient and remember we wrote the recipe. Saturated colours peek out from the craters of high cliffs. The roads are moist and ghostly. The perspiration slips into my lungs like an intrusive kiss. It empties my emptiness. Our faces are chalked on a cafè blackboard underlined 'welcome to nowhere'. We first bell into a Turkish antique store with buoyant mosaics and draped lights. 

Next was an elegant bookstore that softly embraces me from behind. A warm yellow light sparkles on the decaying books. Blemished brown papers, lonely paperbacks. He floats across the classics while I pluck out interesting expressions climbing down the spine. My love wanders freely through the aisles. Knowledge is his romance. We see these glittered angel wing bookmarks which we get to match. They come in small paper bags to keep in our pockets. 

Next door is a wide alley with garden widgets and newly varnished statues. I come across a small hand mirror in the shape of a key that catches my wandering pupils. I hold it up and look at my reflection. Someone must have soaked out the words already, but where did they put the bucket? Since when have I looked so free? I look over at him and then back at the mirror. Maybe this mirror is my bucket. I'll take it, and when I'm back in the chaos of the city streets I'll look at her and remember how I'm supposed to feel.

The last place we enter is an old-style toy store on the edge of town. Fluffy puppets dangle from the ceiling like a fever dream. Besides the countertop is a glass box filled with small animals. My glare streams towards a mini turtle flopping out from its shell. He sets his eyes on a penguin trying to fly. Our little glass animals now rest atop the chess set in their own little worlds while we continue to solve our puzzles of existing in conjunction with another. 

- sage