he stumbled down the street in his pajamas and cardigan, cars swerving around this old man who wore desperation on his face and
if we truly knew the weight of the world, we would never rise from our knees.
he didn't see the cars, the way his face was twisted in anguish as if he felt so lonely that he'd up and left his bed just to know he was alive
and i drove and the world blurred tears and i didn't know his story, all i knew is i wanted to stop the car and give him a hug and what was it like to feel that alone?
a boy on a bike, then, a boy with a face so long and haggard he rivaled the old man in the sweater and i wondered if they'd bump into each other and if that jarring, that human contact would give them enough faith to make it through tomorrow
and i wished i could empty the casinos and the parks and the nursing homes and the alleyways and carry the lonely home and they could sit there in their pajamas and their cardigans, their faces haggard from no one seeing them and they could sit there and see each other...
and then maybe they wouldn't have to run into the street and feel the rush of death just to know they were alive
1. link up a post (old or new) between wednesday and friday that you feel is 'broken' or 'imperfect' or somehow redemptive
2. put the 'imperfect prose' button at the bottom of your post, so others can find their way back here (see button code in right-hand column of my blog)
3. read at least one other person's linked-up prose, and give 'em praise!
*e's paintings and prints can be found here*
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