I'm struggling to cry, but nothing comes out. My eye's blue and green shafts are shortening to brown. They're losing their innocence, but I have nothing to say. Her cheeks are yellow, fighting for blush. Her breath is watery, marked by signature stench.
My soul is dripping, but what's the point? She loves me, and she's crying in a dog kennel. She is gasping for breath, her actions dysfunctional and trembling. She is dysfunctional.
I tell her to frak the labs and doctors, go sit on a street corner and suck a grape lollypop.
We talk about Greton, and her orange room there. She talks about her child, the one that lives in her memory of her secret hopes for the future of her life which should end with cancer instead.
That would be nice.
I tell not to turn emo, because emo's are wimps. The talk turns to bass lines, and she plays "Come as You Are."
"Come, as you are, as you were, as I want you to be. As a friend, as a fiend, you need me to be."
The tears come for me, and stop for her.
"Hey, Mr. Tambourine man, play a song for me, in the jingle jangle of the morning I'll be fooooooll...owing you."
The shame comes, but it's not hot, like everyone says. It's just a weight, but it's warmed by my tears, and my love for her. My sweatshirt is kind of hot too. She laughs, but reminds herself she should be sad.
She's getting good at the guitar, and as she plays I imagine her fingers dancing with the naively tuned strings, to a walking pop bass line and blues scale. She kind of wrestles with the blues scale and I cheer on the fight. She is naive.
She tells me to shut up. She puts me on mute and I wait trembling for the out come. My crumbled shafts of light are building again, building as the suspense builds. They arise, in a matrix with green love. There is a black background, with clear flashes and rushing sounds and trumpets and ripping and particles buildingingangangandandangandangand...
And.
She returns triumphantly, dancing with a star-struck blues scale, tango and waltz, hope and despair, naive and innocence lost.
