Thursday, September 9, 2010

Free Fall

She sat next to him while traveling in a helicopter. The fields were different shades of green, squared and circled. The radio was offsetting the flight transmission; there was a storm coming, but the blues were louder amidst all that wack-wack of the two horizontal rotors and the four blades. She had decided this was going to be the last time she touched the clouds through the window and the clouds rainbowed.

He sang along, as he flew the pod. He didn't fear the rain. He had been through the storms in the Colombian jungle, in the Amazon, in the Korean peninsula. He knew rain and he didn't fear its turbulence. He knew that rain was a matter much like dancing; you make her your partner and lead it while trying not to get shocked by an unpredictable heel.

But, this time the bubble floated with one singer, one dreamer, and no dancers.

He knew that upon landing she would get in her car, drive back home, pack-up her things, and book a flight in a big jet to go in search of god-knows-what. She knew that upon landing, she would get in her car, drive back home, pack-up her things, and book a flight in a big jet to go in search of god-knows-what and send him a postcard in another year or two. The flight path was planned.

He knew he couldn't love her; she came and went like the rain. His dance in the clouds with her weren't enough to keep her.

She knew she couldn't be kept; to be kept was claustrophobic.

For her, love was to fall from the sky, alone, hugging the world. For him, falling from the sky like that was what happened when the music stopped because lightning ripped through the tail fin.

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