The 8th Day

Eighth Day

 

Pixie smile like the sun peeking through the clouds after the rain.
Eyes like black pools filled with reflection, depth and mystery.
With an aura of grey, shouts eroded to murmurs when she walked by.
Her voice like raindrops, quiet, soothing, but never unheard.

She often referred to the "Eighth Day" with a lilt and jest in her voice.
It was one of her lovely little eccentricities, like wearing mismatched shoes.
Black hair and a look of seriousness that could transform granite to sandstone.
Her moods affected gravity, bouncing us up or dragging us down.

Last names and history were excluded from conversation, here and now our only concern.
We spoke of music and squirrels, strong coffees and world events. Flowers and clouds ... and then wine.

Fifty dollars or five, we drank straight from the bottle,

by the river, cuddling away our buzz like puppies in the hot sun.

She carried a cork screw in her pocket, but never any form of ID. " Too permanent." she giggled.
Hair smelling of strawberries, skin of lime-scented soap, hips and figure like Mother Earth.
Walking the streets singing songs like drunken soldiers, is 10 am too early for Tom Petty?
Cheese and crackers in our pockets, love and life in our hearts.

We rescued kittens from a dumpster, sitting with a basket until we found homes.
Always reaching for the stars and pretending we held them, laughing with glitter in our hair.
She only cried in the rain, she denied it and I chose to believe.
She became my drama, my downfall, and my salvation; all in a 110 pound frame.

We tried sex, but it just didn't take. We were awkward and clumsy and giggly and drunk.
But our friendship blossomed, like a lilac bush exploding in the Spring.
She was the bird, and I was the song. She was the rain on my parched ground.
Like fine china and Tiffany glass, her fragility only added to her preciousness.

On Wednesday I saw her name in the paper. My sunlight had made the front page.

Shattered and broken beneath the bridge, like a baby bird crushed on the sidewalk.

Her name was Angela, and I found a note thumb-tacked to our bench:

"It's finally the eighth day. "

j.swaney
[email protected]
 

Reviews

[PureSyn]

'Sigh' This took me an emotional roller coaster ride...one that I'd gladly ride again. I felt shards of pain, became teary eyed within the softness of the childlike naivety and gentleness; held my breath as love and just out of reach passion loomed in the stillness. And your ending left sitting staring at the closing lines; their impact not soon to be forgotten....
"On Wednesday I saw her name in the paper. My sunlight had made the front page.

Shattered and broken beneath the bridge, like a baby bird crushed on the sidewalk.

Her name was Angela, and I found a note thumb-tacked to our bench:

"It's finally the eighth day. " You painted words that came to life! A sublime write in its entirety!
Thank you!

Nicole

[Angel's Lady]

Walking the streets singing songs like drunken soldiers, is 10 am too early for Tom Petty?
Cheese and crackers in our pockets, love and life in our hearts. -- How perfectly beautiful.

My sunlight had made the front page. -- See now, I just don't like to cry when I'm reading something so beautiful...but you did indeed breathe life into this paper with your pen.

Very beautiful. Great write. Good job.