2006-01-26 - 8:11 p.m.
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100 Ways to Kill Your Lover
He told me it was a third.
Well, close to a third.
And he was right, too. In fact, until now, there HAD been no rain, no solice from the storms of sunny days yet in 2006. Moreover, while it was only 26 days deep into the month and year, the day fired on like the last 99 had - not a cloud in the sky and not a drop on the ground.
And the wind blew. The dust danced the waves of gusts and flew all around, edging in and tainting everything around - everythng. Black was brown. Red was brown. Orange was brown. The dust covered all and the desolate dryness of it all cut deep, cut heart deep. It was all so dismal, so washed out and forgotten, like yellow newspapers or fuzzy leftovers.
And he told me it could be worse, that there would come a day where I would look back on 100 days in the sun, 100 flawless and relentless days and I would miss them. Knee deep in snow or shacked in from the rain or fire falling from heaven, I'd wish and pray the clouds would disappear and the sun would come back.
But I won't. I can understand her now. I can understand the girl who will dance like a twirling ballerina in the rain, face to the skies and eyes on the crying mountains of clouds. I can fully understand her now, the angel crying raindrops with a smile on her face. I feel her dust. I feel the dry cracks and the moaning in the soul for release.
Tension never had it so good.
I can see the sun drying her out, fading her out slowly like photographs on a leather car seat in the desert. I can see the lights go low behind her eyes, the whole world growing darker and my heart pushing with all its might to keep afloat.
I can taste dust.
I can sense the cobwebs.
I see the ground and hear it, the ticking and the swaying. It swings like the last seconds of a hanged man's life. It bobs like the ebb and flow of a pulse. The pounding throb in my head much like the pulsing of time, onward and outward, infinity forever impressing itself.
I can see the cold winds shifting, the chill shadowing out the warmth of the brisk sun's rays. I see the air getting dense with disaster, the room full of malice, the bed cold and comfortible and empty.
If I could fly, I'd wash this drought away.
BMC
What did you just say? - What's he gonna say next?
