She Wrote the Day

 

 I liked to play tea party

As soon as the laughter faded

The other boys diminished to mere pinpoints

That’s when she wrote the day

 

Eight years, three months

She may have been the one that taught every boy the way, timeless

Her eyes were old world goddess, rapt, penetrating

Her innocence, not a day over her eight years

 

The universe, our tea party universe

While still full of potential and possibility

Shrank, custom fit to the shape of our energy entwined

And we imagined, oh Lord, did we imagine

 

Some days I barely remember the sequence of events

Only that, in the end I was filled with the future

Knowing, somehow, that she was the future

If not for me, then at least for the universe

Sugar Baby

 

     “Come on, try me.”

     She looked up from her phone, rolled her never ending eyes, and sighed a metric ton.

     “Only mouths are we. Who sings the distant heart which safely exists in the center of all things?”

     “Dylan?”

     “You’re an idiot. You are never going to pass this class.”

     “One more, one more please? I will let you have the rest of my Sugar Babieees.”

     She grabbed the rest of the Sugar Babies, shook some into her mouth.

     “Not in a box, not with a fox.”

     “Uhhhh…Whiiiitman?”

     She grabbed the Sugar Babies, flipped me the bird and flew down the stairs to the living room.

     I leaned back and stared out the window, glowing in the knowledge that she was my friend.  Best friend even, as long as there was a never-ending supply of Sugar Babies.

For the Propmt "Prosery" at dVerse Poets Pub

Can I See Your Room?

      I awoke this morning to see that my globe was the size of a marble. My dictionary was open to the page where the word foreign would be.  The definition was cut out. I looked out my window and saw my old friend from Laos.  She was no longer an emoji. I reached for her hand and for the first time, felt how small the world had become.

He/She or Gathering the World

He saw the world at right angles, sharp, geometrically synchronous

She saw the world in feathered edges, soft, undulating, grey where they needed to be

He never sat back in a chair, relaxation meant lack of control, weakness, pain

She let the day wash over her slight frame, cleansing, smelling of honey lilac soap

When carefully mixed, they made a complexity unmatched, people were drawn

Foreground purposeful and solid, background left to fanciful imagination

There were cogs and pulleys, sand and flowers, whips and belts, coalescing

They would hold court and people would come and ask questions and fawn

He held them rapt with numbers, theorem, history as bright and varied as a Pollock

She would roll them about her tongue and make loins tingle, every word a breath of mint

Together they would make the others want to be them, eating from the same trough

When night fell and the others withdrew there were whispers and thoughts of new beginnings

He saw the world at right angles, sharp, geometrically synchronous

She saw the world in feathered edges, soft, undulating, grey where they needed to be

He never took the attention for granted and took the responsibility to heart

She absorbed the energy and returned it tenfold, drunk on the possibilities