Disconnection

I am uncertain what summons us to a half circle bench amongst the cold brick square. We share a continuous simple thought, perhaps we desire power of clarity at rest. An electrical intense vibrance surrounds our equilibrium this grey afternoon before a symbolic blizzard casts the whole city for white despair. Mutable silence acknowledges a future without expectations full of tribulation. Naivete refuses to delve deep into pessimism; war will rage until no life exists. What a strange curious metal geometric pattern aligning bricks pocked with sorrowful boot steps. I stare at numerous clay craters allowing childlike inquiry to take over my mind.

Patterns of neurological worry storm my brain with circular activity; numbness gathers my senses. I care not for such sentimental emotions; hard knock experience creates a stone heart inside of an empty vessel growing horns wildly. I sit alone while she wanders within her individual will; lost inside my self I mindlessly awaken to chaos. Ice sky globes crack red lines cycling two unholy dark centers; I react foolishly upon noticing upset body language.

"I'm sorry........"

My actions are without contemplation; appearance of dismay creates her face. Disconnecting static separates our fondness of cruelty; an atmospheric nirvana motions her to giggle the coo of a grandmother upon discovering sweet rosy cheeks.

"No people come to sit at this bench; surely large enough to seat a large tired group. Why is that?"

Breaking waves wash upon her shore of realization; staring at the distance she is offended by my interruption. Her voice's sonar bounces through my cave of essence yet I cannot recall. Dramatic tenderness transcends her appearance into one I find hilarious from the act of insincerity; thus no longer amuses me. Fruitless willfulness creates a sense of seriousness from disappointment. I cannot laugh unless the situation is a feather shed by a dove. I may nervously crack sarcastic rumbles to regret; my vitality dies from wasted energy.

"We are sitting on the bench. You cannot say that nobody sits here."

She physically demonstrates different positions of emptying and filling a seat. I cry tears of sorrow for the ghost; the reason is not inside a grave.

Methods of comfort never transcend my distillation into serene placation.

Desiring no further answers from Snow we settle into her home. Tossing and turning from a restless spirit she attempts to sedate me with Bavarian chocolate; I feed her fluff of bearded feline. As I pretend to sleep she carries me; she shocks my softness and sings a village folk song.