The Waiting

by krstaten

Let’s say the mountains came up all at once. Let’s say
like a tree growing in hyperspeed, they planted themselves,
buried deep their roots, reached tall, and divided the world
into East and West, or North and South, or for all it matters
Before and After.

The city whispers at night. The skyscrapers, the mountains;
the lights, the sun for which they reach. But in the lullaby
the East and West, the North and South, the Before and the After
stretch themselves into harmonies, parallel to the world we always
thought we’d have.

Somewhere on a Friday night a man is laughing out loud to a movie
only he can hear. Burnt dinner, soft music. A teenager with a lip ring
sets the streets on fire by moonlight and runs away laughing. All the bars
full of people who became exactly who they always thought they would
and who didn’t.

Somewhere on a Saturday morning, the mountains are hungover.
Let’s say they stopped growing grass. Let’s say the rocks took over,
then like flowers concrete grew. Let’s say that one day Before and After
met, decided the world was too much, laid it flat. Started over. Laughed alone
at nothing.

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