Like Snowflakes for Hire

I look at you and you're talking, telling me you love me and this is why I should do this. But I'm tracing the lines that shadow your face, it's the fence of the football field, outside dancing with the street lights. I think the field must get lonely, it's hired the snow to lock us in tonight, and now these tiny powder mercenaries recklessly hurl themselves at our car, building walls of determination that, with my apologies, I'll crush without even knowing it. But that's not the point. You're talking. Telling me you love and that is why I should do this. But I can't, I can't abandon the brotherhood. Our first argument. Its snowing still Steph. Is this worth the argument? Probably not, we'd both agree on that, but neither of us would budge either. Kind of like snowflakes for hire. Ha, that's crazy, I know. We are white. But you tell me that so many people care, that it's a waste not to do something so simple. Logical, good work. But sometimes you have to just not care, and damn, that's dangerous. I'm a poet and I have no idea how I'm connected to the night, it just seems that a strap would get in the way. But you love me and that is why I should do this, you tell me. I love you too. But I love him, and he doesn't do it. We're like foolish brothers, idiotic really. Agreeing to a reason that doesn't exist. But look outside, I care too much sometimes. And then I have to make room for severe foolery. I am your fool, not your jester, but your idiot. You look good in the dark but I'm told that's a bad compiment. "Don't I look good in the light?" Touche. Ok, I'll give you the long and the short. On every part of your face touched by tthe path of a pasing shadow, I have found a bit of freedom. Shadows that crisscross your face and muster what little exitence they have to dilute the shine in your eyes, and though they fail, and oh how they fail, they compliment you in your seat next to me, unafraid of passing shadows and looking to embrace a message from the melodrama. Who knows what the snow and fences and shadows are thinking, surely they're holding the same conspiratory script, and their emotional montage is a display of divine presence. A condition of cars in the night, parked in random lots, where the human soul becomes an object of worship, or at least, great attention, and for once the cosmic comes to exonerate. Where the ideas of giants are glued like little rocking hula girls to the dashboard of our lives and while we sit and search for masquerading snowflakes, trying to hide the inevitably obvious fact that we're biting our lips fighting off questions that pry and beg for justification of such desperate measure, those monumental ideas become our audience, and sooner than later, turn undoubtedly, to nothing. Sometimes, the only humane thing to do is not care. Its like writing an entire piece with your eyes closed. Its like throwing yourself down a gravel road at sixty, eighty, a hundred miles an hour, with no belt, illogical and irresponsible. Its still snowing Steph. You're talking and you tell me you love and that is why I should do this. But I care too much, hold on, I need to pee. Yep, pee. I lean against the fence, peeing through the link, and I can feel clouds swirl above me. Man I love that. I'm peeing in front of a car, in public, onto a private lot, and I don't care. But its not enough, I still care too much Steph. So here, here's my shirt, and my shoes. My socks gotta stay too, I'm working on my belt, hold my pants, I'll be right back. These ideas equate to air, starve me of either and I suffocate. Hop the fence. Run down the hill. Fall in the mud. Laugh. Smile. Get dirty. "I don't get you". I don't get me. But you say you love me and that is why I should do this. I'm free again. Do you get it? I'm free again.

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