You asked her to go for a ride with you. She laughed, she would never do that. She might make you think she would, a tale you would love to hear, a story you would willingly listen to over and over. Even if you knew it weren't true, it was a recital you wouldn't want to miss. She was an exquisite dancer. She could make you feel like yours was the only seat in the house.
In the end though, the no came through. Never said, only felt. She was gentle though, helped you think it was your decision. Silently agreed to a new shared story.
It was hard on her though, she had believed some of your stories too. She gave it one last try. She tossed you a bone. A good one, something with some meat on it. Did you know it was a test? You were satisfied with that bone, willing to settle for just that. And so she saw all the limitations she hadn't believed you could have. She walked away, of course. She had a long list of things to do.
She left you with the bone, it was yours now. Yes, of course, you buried it. It's your only treasure now.
4 comments:
Why do the contents of this blog feel like poetry to me?
I also wonder what it must be like to be capable of such expression so early in the morning.
knavak - A former prof of mine might say poème en prose but I don't know if this one qualifies.
As for the hour, I actually wrote it last night and scheduled the posting time for this morning.
oh yeah... poeme en prose... sheesh. i remember them trying to drill that into my brain too. Sadly enough, I don't think it worked.
I actually thought that this one qualified on the principle of being "la pensée concentrée"... which I seem to recall being one of the qualities of poetry. Either way, it impresses me.
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