don’t say a word; write it down, mark it art;
ink a thousand verbs, bleed them into song;
don’t offer up a melody, unless it is amazing;
sing out this pain, block it red in silver rain;
stop this autumn sun, let the blues appear;
write it loud until our voices sing it out ~
I watched them walk away in a background lit by amber street paint and gleaming sidewalks slick with mist. Trees seemed to whisper around them, the leaves failing to meet dried blades together, gone lifeless in the breeze. Among their silence, two lives seemed to cleave.
Watching them safely, coffee smoking slightly, this corner cafe my nighttime company. Traffic horns; buses gasping brakes; cabs screaming all over the place couldn’t mask what flashed between them.
His open grasp lingered on her shoulder. A black overcoat kept his form, but couldn’t hide his shoulders as they slipped forward, hoping to still catch her.
A dark sari draped heavily, yet a halo of light seemed to radiate; a street lamp turned spotlight captured her face.
A lone light, this corner street’s angle somehow encircling their beings as hands, palm to palm, finger to finger, skin praying together, not letting anything else in.
And then, I watched them fall apart; arms falling down, palms to the ground, flanking sides, gone ghostly. Each turned the other way. The city continued her beat; feet stepped away. I watched until the crowds swallowed them up, a thousand different thoughts went past them.
A troubadour must right their wrong; write their song. A tune that will never get lost within the city where streets find love has left and gone.