Saturday, February 14, 2009

There are roses and tributes tied to a lightpole, hope and love bound so loosely with large red ribbons, more fitting for unexpected chocolates to young lovers.

And it's a lot like rain. Love. Umbrellas. It's just like when he can see the rain right before his eyes. When it's not just a feeling, tapping against his skin and clothes. When it's not the smell of drowning footprints on cracked gray. When it's not just a middle school geometry project on murky, effervescent sheets.

But concentric circles have a way of cheating on tests, multiple choice, fill in the _____.

But he can see it, the rain. It is there, outlining, highlighting the world, bodies in static motion, television with the sound set to the lowest volume without being deaf. Down, down, diagonal down. Hard to tell if lines make up the world or if the world makes up the lines in this underwater play.

It's a lot like rain.

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