I was once told a story.
About hot air balloons.
And crash landing kites.
No one else could tell the story like her.
(except maybe a rock star).
This story, listened to from an outsiders view,
Was ludicrous at best and full of fairly consistent hypocrisy.
Even as the story went on, the details continued to change.
As if they were being made up on the spot.
The sheer incredulousness of the story itself turned most people away.
I couldn’t stop listening.
It was like nothing I had heard before. Tasted. Touched.
I heard brilliant colors that made me ooooh and aaaahhh.
The taste was phenomenal, drinking the nectar like hummingbirds did.
And I could feel it. The weight of a clock, texture of a scarf doused in blues and grays.
I found them on my couch for weeks after.
(unmistakably yours)
A reminder full of mixed emotions.
I couldn’t ignore it.
So without words;
I want to fly kites and crash land in hot air balloons.
