PATTERNS

Something I wrote for a creative writing class.

Each crack in the pavement swiftly moves in crooked lines. They drift as much as the heart develops air in the trapped tambourine beat of a drum. If I reach and pull the weeds out from the crevices, they are left with a bitter stump. Thus, it is unrequited love. If pavement is straight and carefully encloses the greenery it surrounds, flowers are seemingly caught in perfect order. A euphoric pressure that bleeds lines together and mends the frayed edges. Hence, love is a comfortable delusion. With the stroke of a brush, cement is freshly laid, smooth and boxed in between sections of dying grass that balance rays of sun. Then, love was present until indifference. In the stillness of vacant fields where hollowed-out trees collect abandoned nests, love is non-existent, never known. A secluded mouth, young and hungry for the numbness of time. Perhaps, in the recesses of an old dirt path before pavement and cement were invented, love was lost, lonely in the eyes of another. In the alleyway where garbage riddles the once open ground, and sleepless people grasp at straws, love is lamented. With the heaviness of sorrow that burdens the old, leaving them speechless as their spirit wishes to fade. Every burst of air running up the sides of seamless empty walls. Still, the porch light is on; if love is simple, even chosen, it will shatter the pattern.