The cranes are still dead, looking very much like skeletons if handguns had them. And the vermillion sunrise has come and gone in minutes, the morning is now at the mercy of the blues and greys; the moments before the unfettered sun comes.
We have silence for the moment, and coldness. This is much better.
I don’t want to watch the city wake up, no innocence or the magnificence when Rain does.
By the time I have to go home, the city would have woken up and will meet me with the hunger and the veiled desperation. The cool pastels are retreating now, the sun has shed her clothes. Whites and yellows. Radiance. Even the clouds scatter. I can only hope to dream in her fever and harsh rays. Then my dreams go translucent, and eventually transparent enough that my own sweet silent desperations can be seen, cooking in her heat.
Coldness is an eternity of reminisces away.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment