Rethink.

Not even polite, meaningless words. On these bright, clear days she’s outside. Moving as if at a playground. No wave, no “hi,” certainly no “how are you.” Only a forced, slight smile when I wave and ask how she is. Attention might be a game. It might always be “I’m interested.” But sometimes my grandfather …

for Emelie. Thanks to Svetlana Chmakova for inspiration. Left the pink tiara on Mars, the glittery shoes near Alpha Centauri. Brought fairy wings to Earth – yeah, they don’t seem to work anymore. Other women are acknowledged. One I know atop an office building chats lively, frequently with many. Her life, a blur of light …

“Imagination and fiction make up more than three quarters of our real life.” – Simone Weil “Lie!” The shout tore through walls, bricks flying out the back of the house. Some struck cars, smashing windows, denting steel. Others killed passer-by. Pools of blood in the streets. In a corner of the house a spider wrapped …

We matched our steps in dance precise. His lead lacked flaws, I followed quick. The music flowed like wine. The shine was blinding. Sweat, a lifetime’s work? A friend who glided perfect once, divorced. Her dull porcelain cup in hand. Some talk of law and bills. Not the stars’ motion, only ours.

The changing wind reminded me of lost control of life. The trees shed leaves, sun sought to set: a season’s resolved strife. Those hurt do seek resolution. But feeling all would end was forest, wind. Surrounding self, collapses, turns and rends.