Screenname Silence

Mountain lakes glimmer;

My shiny eyes gaze to you.

Trees falls eventually.

Skip this page--

because it’s not worthy of reading.

Skip this page--

On a special day, the numbers align.

Finally, our future will be mine.

On a special day, a cycle is complete,

and alas we will break from defeat.

On a special day, I hug you close--

although it has been bad for you, I love you most.

Things will change.

Your life will rearrange--

I sit on the couch with you, 

and the muffled sound of music comes from your phone.

I joke and try to take it-- begging for a change of song.

A simple chuckle, and a simple no-- all you say, always.

I don’t mind, and moments later I forget as I continue to sit.

I run in the backyard with you--

shoving and yelling, “It!”.

Our giggles pierce the air loudly, even though it’s only us.

I stumble back, and my new shirt is covered in green mush, 

so I drag you down with me, and we giggle--

although we fought first. 

We argue in the car about whatever,

but we’re singing loudly soon-- before our fight’s even over.

We fling around in our seats, and we share earbuds--

I hope you don’t get carsick, but you always did;

I sat prepared so to avoid the exposure.

Even so, with you-- beyond our endless dud

brains-- our love is unconditional, and our friendship is matched 

Dancers in the night take hold in peculiar forms. Either of broken twig or estranged blooming flowers.

The first dancer, the soloist, take the stage-- engulfed in enchanting pink light. Backstage, she is accompanied by clunky dancers painted in yellow or green. The little monsters wait their turn for the moonlight to shine them finally, but the pretty pink pansy ballerina hogs all of it-- she licks up the attention as if the night's cast have gone home.

But, every so often, the broken twigs lift from the ground and glow for all of the animal audience to see. Twinkling light blankets them, and they gloat whilst the dread of permanent burial fills their little minds. The dead shrubs and sticks of green and yellow infect the flowers waiting patiently below. 

I’ve been crocheting since I was a young girl, 

and you, thoughtful, eloquent you, have always worn my works.

I made scarves and hats, intertwined with my love,

so that you’ll remain warm and cozy, because you’re always thought of.

My friend, Daisy, warned me that I was wasting yarn, she sang that 

“men are no good, for they orchestrate lies like a common Arne.”

However, I never listened, and I continued with gloves and socks.

My friend, Rose, told me that I’m only fueled by Springtime, and I should stop;

with a cooling breeze, I had a moment of recognition but that was soon over, 

and I yet again gave your gun ammunition. 

I worked harder, as I started on towels and blankets;

you used them, with a toothy grin, but you thought them like rusty trinkets.

I tried. I tribulated, at last I failed. But the spring’s beauty and heat,

distracted me from its true message underneath.

I made the most lavish drapes and curtains, and I gave no time for rest.

But finally, my oldest friend, Sage, got through, 

for she sang a beautiful fortissimo of truths.

She hymned, “Your yarn is gone”, and now I know: I let you get away with theft.

I’ve been crocheting since I was a young girl,