Hidden

 

A secret burn,

Flower under grass,

The last leaf when all else are gone.

Self immolation

Keep everyone else warm

Burn yourself out.

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Red phone.

Sometimes you feel things that a language can’t word, so the best I can tell you is this evening-I feel Red.

Red like anger, red like the commie I am. Red, red and red repeats my head which rhymes with the Redmi* I write this on. It’s funny how cool phones used to be back in the day. The cruder they were the more popularity they had. We’d sneak those heavy bricks into school and stare into the tiny screens where we played snake. Later we’d mash our clumsy thumbs on colorful flip phone after we downloaded games off shady websites. The games were generic and ripped off movies and better games on PC’s.

Eventually the phones lost all their buttons and we were tapping at screens. It was a  long time though before our phones were more than phones. I don’t remember when they became platforms, when suddenly something that had your entire life on it was just a disposable hunk of plastic replaced every year.

The phone in my hand feels like a red button I’m used to slamming. Phones take you everywhere and this one is taking me back. I’m not a materialist I don’t feel attached to the phone but I can’t say the same for the memories that come with this one. Someone offered to trade me a Note 4 for my Note 3, they need a back up phone. What’s a single number to me anyway?

I run my hand over the cracks on the screen and my blood feels red, as memories rush back. I remember slender hands that ran over it and announced “Only red china for you comrade?”. I remember voices that came from within it, I remember what I told it and the people on the other side, I remember conversations written. I could ruin those memories by rereading old message, reviewing what actually happened. I could map myself along everything that was on it, every friend or someone more I have or haven’t talked to. It would rhyme like bad poetry.

Somewhere on it there might still be pictures of who I was but ah! It was just a phone, just a year or so, just a girl or two, just a city or two, just some friends you no longer know.Give it away, give it away. Hold onto the red but not the phone.

 

*A Chinese made phone

Hotel match

I keep a photo of two strangers. I rescued them out an old match box from a hotel, brought home some 3 decades ago. On the matchbox it says “Mountain View. Visit Again.” Both box and picture are yellow and dirty. You wouldn’t watch to trace your finger along the inn and mountains drawn on the box, the paint is so aged the mountains might lose the inn.

The remaining matches are frail and could never dream of working. One wonders why no one gave in to the temptation to strick a match a burn the picture. Why was it there anyway? Maybe it was supposed to be burned, the two grinning men without a harsh work between them.

Wind down

In the thunderclap

she hears her name.

 

Last one in,

the moth enters

before the door closes.

 

Silence unlike the charity dinner

there- selfies first.

 

Deciding where to land

her brown curls,

flow down.

 

She combs her hair,

the length of a girls dream.

The cave man

He was a clever caveman. The fire would keep the cold away. No predator would come close while it was still lit. He’d stored up all the wood he could find to stay warm.

It was a hard days work, made harder by the winter that he knew would soon catch up with him. The trees had lost their leaves, the caves and burrows had new residents and the earth above seemed empty. His footprints were the only ones for miles. He drew his furs closer while looking at how far back his trail seemed to lead.

Fire wasn’t the only thing that warmed him. The grassy plains and clear sky he’d seen made him feel the same way. But that was long ago in a distant past. The memory seemed to grow colder with every fire he lit. The sky above was dark and littered with rain clouds. All around him was white snow, nothing like the plains he knew.

Staring into his bonfire it was hard to explain. Why did he decide to walk the way of the nomad? The fire had lit up the dark cave of emptiness and  purposelessness the same way it lit up the night. He was smart. He felt the coldness inside. He lent in closer to reach the warmth. Ouch!