Little Winds
He woke. A slight sweat as the slight draught crept up the slight stairwell of the little attic hallway where she, the little wind and he, slept—z after z, grin and grin—night after night and into day.
He had dreamt that she, the little wind, had fallen. Fallen down where the little stairwell crept a little on its own—creaked a little, weakened a little more than its own Victorian heritage.
Down the stairwell, as a runaway afraid of some specter—some false memory of a time when he thought he was more—he fled. But only to the fridge. To the hummus and pita and beer and water and cool cool warmth of artifice. The cool warmth that allows one to know where, just when and how one’s heart lies.
He loved the little wind in the little room sitting atop the little cottage where the little things became the biggest things that could, and would, carry him and her into a bright future.
A future composed of breaths, tied by the slightest sort of twine. A future of breaths tied in an effort to hold onto that midnight summer. To hold onto a future of breaths sweated, slicked, kempt and undone as they ever could be.
Dreaming of the helicopters circling their romance—a romance that should have been a crime for it’s everythingness—and twiddling the other’s toes as each thought of going, down the stairwell, as runaways finally unafraid of everything and ready to catch the next open box freighting down some coast they’d never heard of.
Go now, they would speak. Go now and live and love the other.
Go now and carry what the wind couldn’t. Go now and carry each other.
Go now because now is then.
