Long before we retired the idea of being saviors for each other, we anticipated fireworks.
He met me at a booth. I was warning the general public about the dangers of litter, about a woman who swerved to miss debris and ended up crashing and perishing. Looking back, I must have been somewhat of a clairvoyant. But who was the litter? He or I? I may be a clairvoyant, but I'm not much of an interpreter.
After clocking out, we walked into the crowd. We searched for a man without a face. With no luck, we left. Everyone had a face, or at the very least a mask.
My foot hurt. My foot really hurt. But I was determined to keep up with him. Truth is, I needed a crutch. I would never let him know, though (although I suppose I'm letting him know now).
And now here's where it would be nice to be a great poet - Here's where I would describe the fireworks that we both almost saw together, but departed moments before the first crash of color. Here's where I would show the color. Here's where I would relate this to the time when I saw the traffic lights, frozen fireworks, through blurry eyes while driving home in his truck, silent. Here's where I would make a point, some kind of point that would break your heart and leave you deeply affected by my poetic explanation of fragile love lost. Oh, but I would never use the word "love." But you would know. You would feel it.
Instead I imagine him smoking his cigarette. He's forming an internal monologue. I am not very well liked in this monologue of his. I am silly. I am shallow. I am young. I will never change.
I still need a crutch.