the rain, it tumbled down through the cracks in the sky
the vacant lot
The sun is setting quietly on the field, disappearing behind the false security of neighborhood fences. The lights inside these comfortable homes flicker on, televisions blare, blinds are pulled. You sit in the cold on top of an itchy blanket, leaning uncomfortably against the brick wall. She's smoking, blowing little rings out into the settling night. These wisps dance and spiral into nothing. It's distracting.
She has the bluest eyes you'll ever see, always rimmed in dark mascara and eyeliner. They're glazed over at the moment, from the pot, but you can still see she takes pride in them. Her socks don't match; one is purple and blue, the other is orange. Everything smells like herb. You look into the lives of the other people, gazing through their windows and taking part in their nightly routine. She packs another bowl. The black lady in the third house over is singing mutely, her mouth making oblong shapes and quivering. A line of smoke clouds your vision and you cough, laughing. It's night now. You can see the stars. The empty field is a cool place to look at stars. She asks you
What are we gonna do? Sarah? What are we gonna do?
You don't really know what she means by this, so you ask her what the hell she's rambling about.
With our lives? What are we gonna do?
You look down at your hands, following the lines in your skin. You have a short lifeline.
You'd bet a million dollars she does, too. The night is no longer refreshing. It becomes consuming as it swallows you, hot and wet like a moist cloth. Smoke wafts into your nostrils as you ponder.
It's kind of hard to think clearly. You battle the fog.
You want to know the truth? You ask her, turning your head. She nods, slowly, without rhythm.
I wouldn't fucking ask if I didn't want the truth. She says, taking another hit.
You pause, and gesture to the world around you: the vacant field, the bag of bud, the dirty houses. The shitty people, the dumb kids, the empty night.
I think this is it. You say.
She looks at you for a minute, her eyes turning overcast. It takes a while, but she finally nods. You take a hit and make your own smoke patterns.
That's what I was afraid of Sarah. I think so, too.
You pick up the blanket because the bud is all gone. The fabric folds wearily and the two of you start the long walk home, pushing through the weeds and trying not too think too much about the future.
She has the bluest eyes you'll ever see, always rimmed in dark mascara and eyeliner. They're glazed over at the moment, from the pot, but you can still see she takes pride in them. Her socks don't match; one is purple and blue, the other is orange. Everything smells like herb. You look into the lives of the other people, gazing through their windows and taking part in their nightly routine. She packs another bowl. The black lady in the third house over is singing mutely, her mouth making oblong shapes and quivering. A line of smoke clouds your vision and you cough, laughing. It's night now. You can see the stars. The empty field is a cool place to look at stars. She asks you
What are we gonna do? Sarah? What are we gonna do?
You don't really know what she means by this, so you ask her what the hell she's rambling about.
With our lives? What are we gonna do?
You look down at your hands, following the lines in your skin. You have a short lifeline.
You'd bet a million dollars she does, too. The night is no longer refreshing. It becomes consuming as it swallows you, hot and wet like a moist cloth. Smoke wafts into your nostrils as you ponder.
It's kind of hard to think clearly. You battle the fog.
You want to know the truth? You ask her, turning your head. She nods, slowly, without rhythm.
I wouldn't fucking ask if I didn't want the truth. She says, taking another hit.
You pause, and gesture to the world around you: the vacant field, the bag of bud, the dirty houses. The shitty people, the dumb kids, the empty night.
I think this is it. You say.
She looks at you for a minute, her eyes turning overcast. It takes a while, but she finally nods. You take a hit and make your own smoke patterns.
That's what I was afraid of Sarah. I think so, too.
You pick up the blanket because the bud is all gone. The fabric folds wearily and the two of you start the long walk home, pushing through the weeds and trying not too think too much about the future.
♠ ♠ ♠
ANGST