Story #186

I think it has been long forgotten,
Those fine tendrils
Of Vaporous contrails
I kept blindly chasing after.

And when I saw that similar face again
A blowing wind took me
Back to the same dream
Drifting past the nimbus overhang

Through the stratosphere
With a certain celerity
Though, we never could judge where
Or what we were.

Back now, in the smogged city fog
I peer past my red umbrella
To examine what there never was, a musty breeze, gliding eyes to meet.

I can see it,
That pure glance of awkward awe. Stifled breath.
Fathoming deeper,
puddles in puddles eclipse overcast clouds.

The concrete landscape
Too suddenly turns penetrating
Shivering dampness
Seeks through the tilt of your head.

Your overturned smile scorns
But I am immune
And I soundly return one of my own
Of only smoky exhaust.

Ignorance, turning to your other
Slowly backing away, taking flight into the stream
Another fading contrail
Collapses into the setting slumber.