He always had a pack of cinnamon gum and a cigarette behind his ear. His baggy jean jacket sat on his shoulders like it was meant to be there, those beat up converse looked like they could fall apart at any given moment. He walks like he’s confident and shy at the same time, his smile blooms like a flower and his eyes are in a constant state of daydreaming. I often wonder what such a person could be thinking about but it’s not what’s in his daydreams I suppose, it’s what those daydreams will become.
Poetry is a concept humans created to put words into meaning that sounds beautiful, even if it’s devastating. Poets draw on the emotions of others to suck them into their pages and throw their words at them like knives. The wounds we carry with the pain of the words can be wonderful. The sentiment of reading a poem rests in the minds of the consumers. The thought and the time and the pressure.
Time is another concept created by humans. Time was created to hold people in a frame and keep them running from the grabbing hands which rotate around the circumference of a plastic prison. Killing time should be a criminal offence. However being lost in time is a gift, being lost in wonderland, a place where everything glows.
Wonderland can be anything, it’s your place. My wonderland is a place of peace and love. Starry eyed lovers and delicate flowers that sway in the soft breeze. This moment shatters when I blink and remember the reality. The cigarette falls from his ear.
I drift through the multiverse. I don’t understand the concept of a universe. There is no explanation as to why only one place in time can exist. Every decision that is made, every heart that is broken, every time I make you laugh, every pin that is dropped causes a new world to bloom. How wonderful would it be to have the power to drift between all of these places without effort of imagination. To experience these things with you.
The jean jacket is hung up on the wooden coat rack and I am laying on the grass alone. I hear his footsteps on pavement thundering in my ears. My eyes open slowly and focus on the leaves of the tree above my head. Ready to fall to the ground as gracefully and the first dewdrop falls from a flower petal after a light shower. The leaves are shaped precisely with points at the ends and edges that appear to have been slightly burned in a bonfire. Curled up along the edges. Oranges, reds, yellows, and browns tangle together to become a mural of fall.
Cinnamon stings my senses and I turn away from its scent. Shivering, I wander aimlessly down the freezing riverside. The water flows silently under its shelter of ice. I am at peace but war rages around me. Nothing is permanent and everything will fade to nothing. Eventually these thoughts will evade me and I will cough from the cold I am about to catch.
The beat up converse fall apart completely. My life is not broken. My hair is long now and I’ve coloured it to shine against the sun’s rays and the moon’s glow. My face is faded but I am completely aware of my stance. I am in the middle of a clearing near the entrance of my thoughts. Unable to move I accept the fate before me. I fall but I do not hit the ground.
The blooming flower that is his smile is now wilted and discoloured. Escaping reality is my favourite pastime. Once you drift away and fall asleep everything that is broke repairs itself. Or at least that’s the illusion I am living in. Please forgive me.