The Execution

    It turns out execution is very blue in shape. And maybe a line of

gold if you get there safely. My execution was not a very long one.

It was quick and divine the way I imagine moon-dust to feel slipping

through my fingers. My execution had wit and charm—enchantment.

She was armed with freckles that didn’t matter to her, and lips she

didn’t care for. I told her every chance I had that they were spectacular.

Her name was Ellie. She had auburn hair and limbs long enough to

fawn over and eyes to skip into, especially when she was happiest (they

seemed to open up then, like I had my very own closet to jump into

when I got too scared). I loved everything about her. She became my

muse—I wanted her to star in all of my films.

     One day I talked about how I needed her to point at the camera

and stare straight into it because I knew it would kill me

every single time—and I liked the feeling of being killed. The warmth,

the numb sensation, the blank page. The journey back. She agreed that

she would and I said it would be filmed in a meadow somewhere off

a highway where we would make love and maybe get married barefoot,

in whatever clothes we had on that day. We laughed about that for quite

a while. Then she got really excited and said I just gave her the best idea.

“What! What is it?” I asked eagerly. “I want to write you open,” she said.

And I fell in love with her like have so many times before. How could

she say something so perfect? I thought.

I thought that maybe I could love a poet for all my life.

Perhaps we could write books together without killing

each other on the way. I finally answered her and said

“I want to be the one to close you.”

She jumped into my arms until morning.

     She was the first one to tell me that I am easy to tell things to—or

at least the first person I believed when they said it. Because I am easy

to tell things to. I like secrets enough not to get rid of them. I like pacts

and clandestine contracts. But mostly I like signatures—the deliberate

gibberish, the longing ink, the start and the finish. I think it’s easy to

see your future when you are in love but it’s hard enough to agree

with your past. Somehow I get into my mind and have a conversation

with myself, I think “Pass the order form, I’m gonna get a pen with an

erasure, blue if that’s okay.” I come back to form. I’m on my patio again.

The birds are not. I am by myself. Ellie is long gone. She told me

that she is not gay. But I was there when she kissed me—I will never

understand nor will I forgive her. But I need her. I need her in my life.

I want to disappear so I allow myself. I think of the birds. I figure they’re

out there singing in b minor, that way they could modulate into d major

without any problems. Then I am cut off mid day-dream and enter another

dream. A girl I’ve never seen before says, “It’s hard enough to dream in color.”

I think this must be my mind again, trying to get my mind off of my broken heart.

But this girl has a point and I wanted to think about it. For a long time. I wanted

to sleep on it. So I walk towards my room ruminating on the subject. I am reminded

of a girl I once talked to who said she only dreamt in black and white, and I thought

it the strangest thing I’ve ever heard of. Then I

started to doubt how I dreamt. I could not remember if I dreamt in color or not and

could not understand why I even cared.

Did it mean something if you didn’t dream in color?

Before I sleep I felt like writing, so I get my journal out and scrape some

letters down:

It was on the mezzanine
where we saw day
tame the night.
The stage held our eyes

in separate hands
clocked together
methodical in nature.

Oxymoron we Lust
Our smiles

stitched into microfilm
speaking of the light

and how it loved us.



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Many thanks for reading! by adelegenevieve