Bringing in the Garbage

Not only had we never met, but I thought of her daily. The one and only surprise I had garnered. Affection was absent as we strode in the fumes. Of eternal combustion fueled by refuse. As I turned to her I realized why we never met. She was not who she was until she wasn't what is. That simple conclusion I came to revealed the past in what I was without.

Her hands clasp the windowsill as she looked out in pain,
The life not engulfed is a life worn in vain,
She took off her socks and I saw one thing more,
Her pants were not fashionable as they were once before.

Never heaving a sigh nor telling a lie. The moment had passed us by. So in recalling what will be we have somersaulted around to now.

She gets up and exclaims that I have no more use for things that are perfect nor things that are gone. My utter joy is palpable. She palpates my joy. I ask what's the matter. She says it's too firm. My joy must be calcified, infected or worse. Her credentials are spotty so I must ask for a second opinion. "Chocolate!" she exclaims, "that is my opinion!" So we eat brownies that contain chocolate inside. Not brownies that contain chocolate without.

Fortnightly we haven't a clue what to do, so we sell all our worldly possessions and move to the sky. It's quieter there, but wind in our eyes. The clouds have no makeup or dresses or shoes. We tell them they're prettier without them, but the clouds cry in response. When the clouds are not happy, the farmers are. They hate the farmers for making them cry. The farmers love it when the clouds cry. I love it when the clouds cry. I'm an awful person for making the clouds cry. A horrible horrible person who must be punished. They are so innocent and fluffy and pure.

She says not to worry, the clouds are sponges. Sponges are meant to be squeezed.

I guess she is right. They have not yet thrown me in jail, though they all must know what I have done. They must know. I have to tell them.