Turning The Clock

Perhaps leather pages are doomed to witness love stories that die in a scream. No matter the color, black or the more benign brown, always the ink written as tears or bitten lips endeavoring to utter what is beating the heart. The Panda 757 RP cannot see beyond the swimming vision telling it to sleep--- eyes that should open at 3:30 AM to return home, to fly to the South like the strange and sometimes lost bird that it is, to come home to the present of the aging and the young.

Spore B tells it now at past 1:27 AM that he’s in the beach. Panda 757 RP replies, “Is there a moon?” Spore B says yes and Panda 757 RP remembers the last times it was in that time and space--- whom the soul would call to. Like that July in a beach too and Panda 757 RP had seen the moon become yellow then orange, like the sun going cold, setting. Panda 757 RP had thought of sunshine then which was far away and six hours behind: And just like that, sunshine drops off the horizon, like so many travelers before, the horizon unknowing where or how it is--- lost to language, like sunshine. This moon has dreamed of this before, it realized the other night as it was writing another letter--- stopped--- remembering that it was not a happy ending. It is fortune.

It re-reads its own words, wondering at the gaping distance that will be the future. The what-now and where-to-go except home…Where it is simple enough, like the young girl who always just wanted to be a housewife but life turned her and kept turning her. Panda 757 RP says that suicide was not merciful and death would be cruel. How it feels the latter coming closer, feared, yet in the end would be a welcomed friend who’s been shunned. And love, the Death Cabs say, is watching someone die.

Panda 757 RP thinks about that clock which Spore T says is occupied. Of course--- the weak do not have the courage to face regret and four years from now fortune says would feel that remorse. For now just this silence--- like thin skin notebooks being carried around--- light and not as thick as leather. Ah, who will be those manly eyes that will finally read the idiolect?

Like Spore S finally waking up after a dozen hands had rounded that clock and sees what should have been. It could have been…Except that spores always need time to bloom like the thorns in roses. In compartments and segregated, this is how they live the Real. It has all become a cycle of leaving and returning.

A last cigarette, Panda 757 RP says to the one singing of love, this black machine of memento mori. It looks at the first and remaining captured smile of itself and sunshine--- they were happy… And it had avoided being frozen in the same frame since. Perhaps when Panda 757 RP returns home there will be a remedy.