Waiting, Anticipating.

Look at the boy walking under the streetlights. I see him out of the corner of my eyes late at night and I sit and I stare. Mostly out of some odd amusement, but sometimes a sadness creeps its way in like it does with most things. I sit in my chair and watch as he swings around a pole like a leaf in the breeze, almost like a dance, almost like a waltz. He never looks straight ahead, but always up into the beacons of light. I sit in my chair and watch him flutter beneath the lamps and I feel sadness sometimes. What a life that must be, what an inspiration, what a joy. What secret does he hold that brings him here on these lonely nights to my window? Does he even remember that I'm here, watching him with dejected eyes, watching his skin pulse like the moon? Is he threatened by the tiny things that creep into heads like mine late at night? What does the passage of time feel like for him? What does love taste like for him? What does a hummingbird sound like to him? What are dreams like to him? I know, now, that there are certain moments in your life that will cripple you with their sincerity. There's no symbolism to them, no deeper meaning except in the fact that they are brief glimpses of melody and magic. At times late at night when he comes to my window, I often look away. Not ashamed, necessarily, but I don't want to make eye contact with him for fear he might run away. For fear that life is nothing but two dreamers lying in bed. I place my eyes on the windowsill and watch him waltz under the stars and streetlights. I want to smile but I don't, because it would only be stifled by the urgency to wipe the tears away from my quivering chin. At times late at night, I want to stand outside in the twilight shadows and wait for him to come by, to run up to him and hug him until he's smothered and can't breathe and screams and crys out but makes no noise because there's no air because it's only a vaccuum of fluorescent lights and stars. But for now, I'll keep my eyes on the windowsill, biting the inside of my cheek and smiling.

Are my chances of streetlight waltzes through?


There's a certain bliss implied with an untied shoelace. Sometimes, things are more important to worry about. Sometimes life can be too beautiful or heartbreaking to worry about shoelaces. Sometimes its more important to lay on the grass under the streetlights and feel the cracked skin of the asphalt against the pads of your fingers and smell the hint of long forgotten rains upon long forgotten highways.