01 November 2009

waiting for the drip

each morning she'd open her eyes to the blossoming last days of her life. each day preceded by a full night of sweet drizzle from the mountains, which she watched from her window with a cigarette above her ear. she'd want to hear if he came home. and the hours before it began to rain, she listened to music in her blue suede shoes with her friends in the garage. she'd gotten them at the secret second-handed shop where she'd buy things just so she wouldn't see other people wear them around town. they'd talk about painting the garage at dinner right before biking there. and she'd sit to watch the blond boys from the valley eat their pizza and pasta every evening. for three years, she'd watched them grow, mullets and girlfriends and all. she'd see them around the bibliotheque, between classes and through dreams. she was happy to see them b/c they'd stop to watch her smile. she remembers when she got a new bike and they saw her biking with no handlebars past the tower. she had a sprouted sandwich in one hand and a notebook in the other. she was headed to film class to sit behind the tall boy before he'd become bald. that bike ride wasn't her last. but it's the one that keeps happening each morning right after the mountains are capped, right after their sweet nightly drizzle.

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