Waxing... (drunk)

Small droplets of creativity drop from guitars played so beautifully, like butterflies tuned in chorus, like samples of the monotonous piping of the harmonic convergence of astronomical spheres, or the crunch of fresh blades of grass, all frozen in the sudden resurgence of winter's crushing grip. Frost glistens like blue nylons on a cute girl's leg, sidewalks framed by sprinkling dewdrops about to smash on the sidewalk as I carry my broken bicycle down the street, her wheels deflated and sad, a grimace of child who got the wrong birthday gift from dyslexic parents.

I saw you there; I saw your mouth move even though no one else heard. You were the quiet one, the one who wore bright pink against the backdrop of green and blue, standing out like a rhubarb amongst a field of kale. Keep shining, quietly, because some day someone will see you like I did and write you in a small black book under the heading "Fran".

You sing a song about longing and I long for a girl like you, your smile like a flash flood, overwhelming and fleeting, remembered in the aftermath as an event that shapes a season, but I think you didn't even see me. You, the quiet one, walked out with no expression, leaving me to wonder if you could feel the cold on a spring night like I do. I imagine you now, cuddle in a blanket alone, reading my favorite novel, and wondering if you'll ever fall in love. Yeah, you already have, in thoughts I share with you. However, you don't even remember my name. Maybe I'll see you again. And then I'll ask you: "What's your favorite color?"; and you'll say "Grey". It's always ambiguous like that, because I am Sisyphus.