Don’t answer the door, just come back to bed. They’ll only get you in trouble. Though, if you must go, let me get my coat. Don’t run with sharp objects, as sharp as you are. We’ll walk to the rhythm of a ballad, then skip to the rhythm of a waltz. Don’t forget the shitty red umbrella in case it rains. We locked the little picket fence to our little cottage surrounded by plastic plants. She held my hand and told me to put on my game face.
“Don’t talk to strangers,” I say to her.
“I don’t need to, they make me yawn uncontrollably.” she said back.
“So do I.” I said to her.
“But I can fall asleep on you when you do it.” she said as she playfully pushed herself deeper into my arms.
We walked down the never-ending sidewalk leaving a trail of breadcrumbs and cherry blossoms. The sky was in the transition of night or day, we couldn’t tell which, but we were sure it didn’t matter. There was always light when we were together. Our minds held in place; everything in this world.
Then one day, without warning, our minds gave up focus. The solid lines, that etched everything became blurred. Our velvet planet became silk, then satin, then denim, then cloth. Holes were forming and we couldn’t get our heads straight in time. The velvet planet became a moth-eaten ball of yarn of a color one can easily forget. That’s the thing with history. History can always be summed up into a few paragraphs, but if you were there, you’d have been forced to watch the city walls come crumbling down, and the greenery turn feeble and crunchy, almost in slow motion. Ironically, The little cottage, where our bed is, was still surrounded by the plastic plants, and that’s where I lay, until the world comes to take me too.