Discolored walls

The White Rose looked at you. She loved seeing you smile. She loved your sense of humor but most of all she loved that you laughed.

“Love me. Love me beyond this, love me till it aches, love me till it clouds your judgement, love me like you did yesterday”.

He looked at her as the tapes of ‘Bob Dylan’s basement recordings’ played, “I do”.

“You don’t”, she pushed him off and rushed to the balcony of their wrecked home.

Their walls were discolored, it seemed to be a shade of brown, but it might have been some sort of red before, it peeled, cracks formed.

“What a shithole” she thought to herself.

There was something about what she saw that calmed her. The lights from those buildings and those crawling ones from the cars that filled the expressways.

The lights represented that life went on no matter how bleak it seemed. People will always have something to do while you find ways to fuck up your own. Nothing stops. Ever.

Bob Dylan whines. He talks about running away. She doesn’t get half of what he says, but she feels the pain of his singing.

“What kind of love is this, that goes from bad to worse” he whined, she sighed.

“He doesn’t smile anymore. He hates this as much as I do. He wants someone else, maybe he wants out as much as I do”.

There is a cold breeze. It creeps through the opening of her dress. It sends shivers down her spine. She was there for the taking, no one paid attention.

“Would I levitate? If I really put my mind to it, could I do it?” she thought, as she inched closer to the edge.

“Would falling down hurt?”

She smiled. Bob was in better spirits now.

“I wonder if his basement had better walls than mine”

MM 18.02.2015

White Rose

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