3 ams
Black and blue skies and blankets of stars.
Old yellow street lights.
Cold air hitting your skin.
Cracked sidewalks.
Quiet.
So quiet.
God, you can't hear.
You can't hear.
You can't hear.
You can't hear all the demons.
Demons, maybe.
But they're just lonely.
Maybe they just want to talk.
But they're always written off as the horsemen of the apocalypse.
Be nice.
Smile at them.
They wander those cracked streets.
Memorizing each line, looking at each light admiring the glow hitting the pavement and the burnt cigarettes on the street left from mid afternoon by a lady who got fired and lives her life with antidepressants, hoping each day will be her last.
They know.
They know the world is bound for them to destroy it.
But it's so peaceful at 3 am, and they don't want it to go.
What else would they do?
They're lonely, walking the streets, damned to do this for eternity.
So I make a point to smile and ask them about their day.
They're probably surprised.
I guess their answers.
Hoping I'm a good guesser by the warmth in my gut.
I give them a hug. I feel fuzzy where you're supposed to be hugged.
I tell them it'll be okay.
I say everything on my mind that I want to say but could never express to the living.
I feel their responses.
They're nice.
Sometimes they hug back.
Sometimes I can hear them tell me about their day.
We could talk for hours.
About our favorite colors.
"Mines dusty pink you?"
A pause, then I get a response."
"Midnight blue."
About our favorite type of tree.
"Willow."
I hear a chuckle from the wind.
"Pretentious much?"
I laugh back, kicking nonexistent pebbles.
"What's yours?"
A pause.
A thought.
"The ash tree. I like it's... meaning."
"Look who's the pretentious one now!"
We talk of everything.
Sometimes I even picture them.
After one of my favorite conversations I imagined a guy, not to tall but not to short, so about 5'11", with black curly hair, midnight eyes, pale moonlit skin, and sharp features.
He was nice.
Kinda cute if you asked me.
I liked him
But not all of them are nice. I guess you could've blame them... doing what they do would make you bitter as well.
I love them.
They listen.
Because what else do they have to do?
All the angels are in heaven, falling in love and throwing parties.
And they're stuck here.
So am I, for now.
So I give them a smile.
Because even the damned deserve love.
They deserve to have at least a bit of forgiveness, right?
Reconciliation and all that.
I understand.
Loneliness, even if you're in a crowd, never really seen, truly.
So I do smile.
I talk.
Because how else will we survive this?
I know how I'll do it.
I'll do it together.
Because I guess I can only truly speak to the damned.
And it's usually just at 3 am.
YOU ARE READING
unwanted redemption
Poesia"Life is like a poem, never truly finished. But sometimes it's over before it even began, because sometimes a pen runs out of ink."-me
