Feather Roses
"Aren't we all?"
He liked the fad of faded jeans and loose shirts; a bohemian representation of what he’s never seen. He felt like a messy canvas, splattered with false hopes and discovery – the persistent smell of smoke a plague surrounding him. He was drums and smoke merged with faded jeans and loose shirts.
“Lazzaro.”
Anonymous and blank, he could recognize that voice. Like a far away dream he could not remember. “Says?” He carefully lowered his cigarette inches away from his leg. He could smell lavender and smoke; and it made him think about those storm clouds people whispered about on Sunday mornings.
“I heard you dreamed about feather roses,” a lilt like no other. He felt iron behind his tongue. “What are they like?” He liked the serene tone on the person’s voice. Female or male, it was of no importance. He knew this person, otherwise, how would he know that voice?
“Have you ever touched a cloud?” He bit the end of his cig. “It’s like touching music, but softer.” He wanted to laugh, but the itch behind his throat impeded him. He felt the stranger smile.
And before he could stand up and leave, before he could leave behind that far away dream; he felt a cold finger brush his chin. It left behind a sensation that reminded him of stars. He wondered if anyone else had ever felt stars.
"Here. A gift." He could taste grief again. Thick inside his thorax, pressing and relentless.
Soft and old, he felt leather under his hand. “I can’t read.” He felt the rare hopelessness his life had brought mantle his tongue as it muffled his despair. “Can't you see? I'm blind.” He felt two hands cradle his face gently, the tender kiss of an anguished mother sealed on his forehead as he breathed in the scent of clouds. He counted tears as his hands traced the old engravings on the leather bound book.
The itch and the iron worsened. “This is a goodbye, Lazzaro.” He pressed his face against clouds and lavender, wretched sobs tumbling out of him.
“I’m so sorry.”
He pressed his cold nose against his sleeve, inhaling the scent of smoke and iron. He opened the crinkled pages once more, inhaling the scent of childhood and life; seeing for the first and last time. And what he saw drifted away with lavender and feather roses to the rhythm of a drum.
He saw a goodbye.
“Lazzaro.”
Anonymous and blank, he could recognize that voice. Like a far away dream he could not remember. “Says?” He carefully lowered his cigarette inches away from his leg. He could smell lavender and smoke; and it made him think about those storm clouds people whispered about on Sunday mornings.
“I heard you dreamed about feather roses,” a lilt like no other. He felt iron behind his tongue. “What are they like?” He liked the serene tone on the person’s voice. Female or male, it was of no importance. He knew this person, otherwise, how would he know that voice?
“Have you ever touched a cloud?” He bit the end of his cig. “It’s like touching music, but softer.” He wanted to laugh, but the itch behind his throat impeded him. He felt the stranger smile.
And before he could stand up and leave, before he could leave behind that far away dream; he felt a cold finger brush his chin. It left behind a sensation that reminded him of stars. He wondered if anyone else had ever felt stars.
"Here. A gift." He could taste grief again. Thick inside his thorax, pressing and relentless.
Soft and old, he felt leather under his hand. “I can’t read.” He felt the rare hopelessness his life had brought mantle his tongue as it muffled his despair. “Can't you see? I'm blind.” He felt two hands cradle his face gently, the tender kiss of an anguished mother sealed on his forehead as he breathed in the scent of clouds. He counted tears as his hands traced the old engravings on the leather bound book.
The itch and the iron worsened. “This is a goodbye, Lazzaro.” He pressed his face against clouds and lavender, wretched sobs tumbling out of him.
“I’m so sorry.”
He pressed his cold nose against his sleeve, inhaling the scent of smoke and iron. He opened the crinkled pages once more, inhaling the scent of childhood and life; seeing for the first and last time. And what he saw drifted away with lavender and feather roses to the rhythm of a drum.
He saw a goodbye.