Lining the Wire

Five...eight...eleven. I count the number of birds in my head. They line the thin wire above me, perched in perfect stillness. Do they talk to each other while they're up there? I wonder. Perhaps they hold secret meetings, conducted high above the listening ears of others. I doubt it. They don't seem to be paying too much attention to each other.

I study their tiny frames. So light they must be, to keep their balance up there. Do they ever fall? I suppose when you have wings to catch you it doesn't matter.

They look so somber, with their beaks pointed straight ahead, claws tightly clutched. Perhaps these wires are a common resting point. These feathered friends could have come from anywhere, yet they all come here to give their small lungs a break. It's like an airport for birds, I think.

Looking at them up there, all in a line, a thought strikes me. Where do they go from here? When they finally take the tiny leap from the wire where do they go? Do they stay in town or do they head for another town, another state? The potential they have. No baggage claim to slow them down or ticket prices to delay their trip. They come and they go. Any time of day, any day of the week.

To be a bird.

But would I embrace that freedom if it were suddenly granted to me? Or would I hesitate forever on the wire, stuck tight with the overwhelming possibility? Would I stay forever at the mid point, listening to the stories of others, never making my own? These birds, they must be terribly brave. With a life so short they don't linger long. A few minutes and they take off once more, in a direction all their own. They waste no time seeking out their journey.

Oh, to be as a bird.

Dance of the Damned

It's a dance and we both know the steps by heart. Forward and back. Back then forward.
Repeat.

You grab my cold, dead hands and pull me to my feet. In your eyes I see that familar flickering light, and I wrench my hands from yours and use them to push you out onto the dance floor. You plead and beg, hand outstrech. You know the dance, but can't manage it on your own. Find another partner, I say. But even as I look around the room I see that there are none.

Better judgement ignored I take my place in your hands. You're grip is tight, almost too tight. I ignore the fleeting pain as the music begins. It's slow at first, almost happy. It sounds of reunion, of forgivness.

It doesn't last.

Before I can pull away again, the music has us both captive with it's forceful rythm. Our feet move togather in the only way they know how. It's no longer happy, but a sad mournful tune. You knew it was coming, but you panic anyway. I can feel your heartbeat quicken through my own skin. You try to slip from the embrace, but I sink my fingers into your shoulder and clasp them around your own fingers.

You're not going anywhere. The dance must be finished and it demands nothing less than blood.

My face is rigid and your eyes are tightly shut. I think you might sink into my embrace at long last, but instead you step on my feet and cause me to lose my balence. But the same arms that shove me away are there to pull me back up again. A deal is a deal.

Back and forth we go. Two steps here, and one there. Around the room we circle, and unending. We twirl faster and faster till the world outside the windows is nothing but a blur. Your hair falls into your eyes and you don't even notice. The floor beneath my my bare feet feels like ice. Cold, inforgiving, dangerous. We might fall.

But we've had too much pratice to fall, and so we continue on without flaw.

For days we continue, weak and tired the both of us. At long last song begins to draw to a close, the cycle begins to break. You stand in place, gasping for breath. I walk backward, slowly, on unsteady legs. I take one last look, then turn to leave. I swear that I am done. My feet are raw and bleeding, my back aches from holding you up. You don't look at me.

As I reach the door, I hear you let out a sob. I turn back.

There you lay on the floor, having collapsed under the weight of your own heart. The floor beneath you is smeared in blood, and I can't tell who's it is.

Help me, you whisper.

My blisters and bruises cry out as I begin to walk back toward you. A faint music plays softly in the background. I feel my own hot tears start to prick at the corner of my eyes. I blink them away.

You're a mess, I whisper, extending my shaking hand. You reach for it, but fall short. I want to tell you to stay there, to look at at my own scars, my own wounds. But I won't. I won't leave you there. I will not leave you like you would leave me.

I lower myself to the ground next you. I take your face in my hands and wipe away the tears. With all my strength I pull you to your feet. Your weight sags against me and my knees almost buckle, but I refuse to heed them.

The music has begun again, calling us both to our places.

We lost our simplicity. We lost it somewhere on the beach, in the parking lot, on the grass, in the cracks of the sidewalk, or in one of the sticky booths at the pizza place. We spent so much time making plans to do something great- something memorable. We failed to see then that those would become the strongest memories. Just the times we spent planning the rest of our lives.

It was simple then, because all the worries and fears were things to be dealt with in the future. We didn't have to worry about life in those moments, we just lived it. And we didn’t even notice. We look back now and that is what we remember. We remember laughter, smiles, jokes, tears, and secrets… all the things that brought us together for those seconds and minutes and years.

How many times did the sun go down on us before we realized that each time it did so it got closer to being the last time?