"Seasons"

      drifting like leaves, we were, lazily flling through each gust, but oh so brittle, so easily broken apart.
      drifting like snowflakes, we were, sailing on the currents but ultimately frigid, frozen in place.
      falling like raindrops, we were, so irect in our descent, but still flowing together, despite every crash.

      we are a river of debris. let the wind do what it will.

Scribble: Another one of those streams...

      She walked with moonlit eyes, or so they'd say if she ever kept them open or free. Hiding behind thick bangs that swayed when she walked, they remained a lunar mystery, a glowing reminder of the brightness inside.
      She walked onto streets paved with broken stones and the tears of old men, dreams long forgotten and lost to time. Yet, every so often she would bow her head, bangs threatening to reach down to the ground, as though paying respect to what was lost before she was even conceived as an idea. She walks, solemn, keeping the moon enclosed in threaded jail cells with each step.
      But I, I with nothing more to do than wax poetic on the midnight wanderings of the eccentric, step beside, trying to get a passing glance at what ocular marvels lie hidden in the dark.
      For a brief moment, I see the glow. And then, in a heartbeat, she is gone, leaving nothing in her wake save the full moon above, suddenly free of cloudy oppressors.
      So I walk...

Scribble: Steam rising from chai not yet brewed.

      Nights were getting warmer, so she thought, perched upon the railing as she was. Sweet and spicy fumes snaked into her nostrils, as muscles in her mouth worked at a smile. "Sure," she thought aloud, as a single drop of rain kissed her forehead, "now you gotta come out and wreck this moment..."
      Retreating through the open window, the young one struggled to climb off the kitchen counter, careful not to spill a drop on the way down. Why the hell the fire escape was put there, she could never understand, but she knew that so long as it was there, no skirt would be her friend.
      "Well," she cooed, leaning on the faded white laminate while fumes floated carefree, "at least the rain's still beautiful..."
      Taking a long sip, the youth couldn't help but smile, as her thoughts turned to daydreams that would fill a thousand novels...

Scribble: Why I don't write after driving late at night.

      Driving. Eyes losing focus. Headlights covered in salty spray, the offal of plows. A thousand blinking, blurring lights from inside. Static, never sated, always famished, omnipresent; the gaping maw of oblivion given voice.
      A deer pausing, eyes aglow, heart beating too fast. Bullet dodged by hesitation. Unnoticed; deer wears a mailbox costume, just as still, just as still.
      Images flash, dreams of a mind eager for slumber. Bare breasts of some awaiting lover. Water sliding past parched lips. Trees reaching for a sun-stained sky. Dark. Blurred headlights. A jolt; mailbox dressed as a deer, just as still, just as still.
      Eyes losing focus. Speed dropping, a speedometer's arm growing too tired. Laughter in a lover's embrace. Easing on the brake, too fast, too hard. Stop with a jolt. Pause. A flaming wreck, five miles from here, a severed limb. Open door.
      The cool night air fills the lungs. The excitement of having made it back draws sleepy eyelids back into the sockets.
      Oh sure. Now I'm awake.