Here in Good Old Florida

By , Woodstock, GA
I?m so far from where you are. Don?t you remember, our walks under the neon street lamps? That last night when I saw your bone white legs slip through our may currents, and away across the balcony? You were not a bird, and the wind did not bid your arms. The ocean covered my screams.
There was an evident smile on that dead face of yours. Was it me, or was it a secret so terrible you couldn?t stand to remain with in this world? I was too late to know.
I sighed as the last of the cops filed out my front door, each one grimmer than the last. I noticed without much gusto that they had identical mustaches, silky black things that could have been little rats hiding on their lips. They matched their boots and their tasers. That glossy black that sparkles when it?s around tile floors and fluorescent lamps. Not that you would need a taser here. I stared past them as they went, piling into their cars, more likely than not on their way to the doughnut shop after my early morning call. Not that they cared. It wasn?t their newly wed wife, delicate, near naked body shattered and immobile on the back patio. They did a good job of asking questions, and cleaning up the blood was all. I wondered if it would bother them as it bothered me. Those big brown eyes so dead but alive on her face. I knew I would have nightmares.
I watched the line of police cars roll away. Suicide. That?s what I told each of those men behind a windshield now. It was suicide. But not any suicide I could comprehend. That?s the part I left out.
I wasn?t in the mood for coffee or sunrises but I sat down anyway and watched it on the front steps as I had every morning for the past year or so.
You couldn?t understand. We wanted kids. We wanted a child, here in good old Florida.
The red sun blazed like a candy apple on the horizon, turning the scarce clouds gold, making me want to sob. I stared around me at the other glossy suburban homes, right out of magazines with clipped green lawns and flawless shutters. No kids yet. But a few sprinkles and the occasional dog could be at heard, the mathematics that made this life a little more real. All of this had been my dream hours before. My dream, to be a father here, to continue writing and make a good living, maybe get a dog. It fell with her off the balcony, evidently. I saw nothing of that here anymore. I saw a plastic sunset, and an equally plastic community. Maybe I could still write. There was that. But without her, there wasn?t music in the morning, cold feed under the sheets, or any of the sugar sweet things that made my life so surreal.
I was all alone, high above anything anyone could find, even if they wanted to.





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