Tonight is
imperfect. The air is hanging around me, too full with longing and despair. The
longing is so harsh, so hard; it has created holes in the night sky and is
melting the moon. The moon drips, drop by drop like yellow salted butter. Over
plants with white buds and trees with yellow leaves. The trees are my friends.
They will not give away my secret. They hide my despair between their thick
branches and yellow leaves. The flowers are traitors. They always have been.
They sometimes convey feelings that the giver hasn't put inside them.
The traitors
will bloom tomorrow. Not white. But Yellow. They will bloom yellow, fragrant
with my despair. Everyone will then know I have been radiating sadness,
creating holes in the sky and melting the moon.
Tomorrow I will have to eat
those traitors. They will taste of salt and unnamed emotions. Maybe then I
would reek. But not of despair, not of sadness. I would reek of 'distance from
you.'
