The River of the World

‘Nobody is really what they seem’ I though while I was being pushed off the cliff. I met you on a Tuesday night in a smokey bar. Tom Waits was playing and his voice was a submarine beaming its light through an impenetrable darkness. I never really liked Waits until I listened to his ‘Blood Money’ on your living room stereo and we were drunk under the moonlight and our skins glowed with desire. It’s easy to be deceived when one makes up tales. I imagined who I wanted you to be and picked the pieces that fit into my dream. You took me horseshoe crab gathering at the beach. It was a windy afternoon, the sky was grey and walking over the crunchy sand covered with bodies was like being notes clashing in ‘Woe Calliope’.

It only took my story a week to bury me deep into your skin, and I was sucking your blood for more ink. Maybe you already knew it would end like this, but the two of us could never give up with a hope of something better. We drove to the cliffs, and you turned off the radio when ‘a man must test his mettle in a crooked ol' world’. The sky was as green as the fields in the recklessly approaching dawn. I guess you thought it would be nicer, in a way, for me to sink under the water with the glowing rays of sunlight around my body. That way all the world would be green. For a second. Before it was dark forever.