Futurestalgia

imagesFuturestalgia

 

In the far future, men will look back and believe in nothing. They will look at these times and regress, then go out for tea. They’ll take helicopter rides to the prom. They’ll look over each other’s shoulders like they care, like they can. They’ll be lost in their rides, and they’ll take the tree tops over to the south. Brazen winds. Oh, robotic glares. History on repeat. Odiferous orifice.

 

I miss the ways we used to laugh just when it got funny. The miles between us. What of this place? This Earth? I can see it heaving. See the growth of many. Walking on the skins.

 

Elliptic rollercoaster with black jacket. A smell, a darkness a cold wind. That closeness. Skins will be the same. Smiles will be always be a result of becoming alive. And the music plays…on.

 

The bass thuds. The keys soar like a desert wind twisting under stars. Racing under and across sands of time. The tap of the high hat, the heart tugging inwards. No ending in sight.

 

What of the future? What of men and women in it? What of the lands that we walk on with our hairs and long dresses in the sun? I cry everytime I think of it. How I know. Heads in hands. Wills of the same. Let the sun play. Play grounds. Tracing. Behaving. Becoming. Those small hands again.

 

“I can stand on my own.”

 

“You fell.”

 

“I know. It’s okay. I like it.”

 

That day I knew the difference. It was like when life speaks only when you think it hasn’t. That breath of long silence. Oh, well. I was only sixteen.

 

Honestly, girl, who are you? What are doing out here, trying to prove yourself. Well you’re not. Just go home.

 

No. I won’t.

 

You might regret it.

 

You make me.

 

I can’t. That’s up to you.

 

Winds. Silences. Cars. Taking on the night. Hand slips to hide. Touching. Minds racing. Even tempers warning like little lights. Pedals holding under soles.

 

A child writing of a time in the future. Wanting to hold on to some distant memory of a time yet to come. Grasping out. Like a vein. Reaching for the hardest surface of appeal. Maybe in time. Cracks. Grooves. Even tempers.

 

You can’t meet my dad…he’s…not here.

 

Strong arm under black leather takes the hand gently. Pale fingers, like porcelain. Eyes like winter in the rain.

 

Me too.

 

Pull off of the rain. Driving the night. Continue. Free lance emotion. Stemming the aircraft arm.

 

Last October I held you. That lost train.

 

Why are you? There is this place I run from and to. It is my mind. My life I do not know. Baseball bats in broken windows. A scream of violence drowned out by unspoken force and left in the room. Don’t go back.

 

I see.

 

It was me. But not know though.

 

How can I break you? My lamenting for a child girl left by Monday morning. I left you like a force of gravity separating lives and it hurts. A pull like oceans. And you are someone different after. But only for so long…

 

Can. Because I can, I do. See you. Someday.

 

Maybe.

 

In soft rains, only under thunder. I mean it.

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