More Ryhme des mots

Ennui

(ŏn-wē′, ŏn′wē)

noun:  The feeling that the world is insufficient for your soul to enjoy being near.

Eyes no longer wish to blur and swim in the colors, they have already cataloged the names and the others who stand there

listless like you

They're not really any motivation to get up and do something

anymore.

We rode on a car (never *in* a car) going 50 down a dead end street

for just a moment;

Complete.

The wind, billowing in the sleeves of my jacket and in the skirt of your dress, waiting for the cul-de-sac curve to throw our centers off again, aching for discomfort in a barren plain of sameness in height and weight and age.

Lets hitch a ride onto the car that drives away from ennui.

Thumbs held high towards a sky riddled with chem trails instead of clouds, lets roll away from computer keys and white starched sleeves

and on towards skin and bones, and sticks sketching stories in ash onto the sides of our canvas home

as we trot through the amazon.

noun. The trickle of water you live next to is no longer large enough to dive into.

I dont care about ponds anymore.

Let find an endless seashore of perfect diving places.

Shiver in anticipation, feet not even touching the hot pavement, barefoot on a boardwalk that we paved;

It is made from the fallen palms and the volcanic trails along the sides of a sea so blue, it is so blue,

as blue as the day we ran away to Peru

the sky was gray in an airport in Seattle, our flight is making fourteen stops, I've got an alpaca saddle strapped to my back with ropes, and you've got a map covered in the bloodstains of our red sharpie destinations.

Paper cuts on our fingers from these maps since the day the two of us saw a woman in the clouds and thought

"Everything  should have my breath caught. Everything in the clouds should make my heart stop."

everything should swirl like pink soap in my bath.

You and me, surfing couches and benches and roofs, adrenaline junkies feasting on instability and spontaneity like it is hard booze.

All I want is to lay out on a warm day in Iceland, and watch the lights roll in like the sleeves on my wool sweater roll up towards my elbows in order to feel the breeze better.

Lay where the air is cold in the morning,

and the car we sleep in is rolling backwards down a hill towards the festival of colors.

our old van battered

windows shattered by the bass in the songs we play and taste.

We're gonna run away together and we wont ever need anything but the feathers in our fedoras and the holes in our socks, spare change escaping its safe place and being lost.

hunger wont be hungry when I'm in Rome with you.

We'll board that plane

and ennui will be checked at a different gate.