I found you, right there in Chuck’s house.
You’re still hiding behind your genius manifesto, just like when we were kids. I knew you were prodigy but too afraid to talk. Yes, afraid. Say what you want but a mirror answers and relays. I get you. Didn’t know if you knew. Not a prom, knew you. A person – knew you.
Premature time let me know who belonged in the scholarship sanctuary. Circles were drawn around the words not befitting. The shirt was too big and the innovation kept falling off the tracks. It was painful to witness. The calamitous clock would progress to afford future fodder. Hoping it did.
Observation permitted me to forecast if we would be the same when we matured. Some are exactly as they were. They still dance the same dance, wear white gutchies and eat fish on Friday. I knew the good changes and the immobile but didn’t want to offend by telling. Storytellers cultivate. Writers drive a Viper. The map deviates a constant timetable.It fulfills the need to open the cage door and better yet – to share it in the feeder.
Words apportion a view of you.It is what you know how to do. It will never hurt you to look in my eyes the next time we speak. Your words convey that you know the world is not a punitive place. Rip the brown paper bag off of your gorgeous head. It’s OK. Put it on a billboard. I promise not to drive so fast that I can’t read all of it as I pass by.
I could hear your heart pounding in my chest. Don’t let the kite fall.