Helena staired out a window from the upstairs of her granperents old house, watching the moon and the shadows in the trees. Its this time of year that the wieght of the seasons bare down on her full scale. Her eyes feel like theyve sunken to the back of her skull. And all she can think about was the words exchanged in a park lastnight. She had been walking, because of boredom, and the feeling of restlessness. Its common to her, when summer feels like its coming to a screaching hault that she needs to take in all that remains of it.
The stars feel the sky like dark angel eyes mismatched size and distance. Its strangely silent, warm, and the light of the moon hits the leaves making strange shapes. Laying in an opening, where the sky is exsposed she stairs trying as hard as she can too see how far out there she can. The clouds with there menacing grace texture the light from the moon. She wonders, dreams, thoughts scramble, shes lost..
foots steps on gravel from a distance, the direction is hard to place. The sound is there then moves somewhere else. Wind hits the leaves of the trees, skewing sound even more. Helena swears she just heard a sentence, her name in it. But she doesnt know anyone around here. Then deciding it was just her paranoia she goes back to her thoughts.
Again foot steps, words, foot steps words.
Helena wokes up shaking, disoriented. How long has she been here in the grass, the moon has moved across the sky. She was dreaming about a man in a black suite reciting poetry, about the moon, grass, leaves her. To her left she sees the figure, slowly standing up. He whispers "good night sweet soul". Takes two steps and vanishes into the shadows of the trees. Walking, as fast as her weak rubber legs would carry her, without drawing attention she walked home.
For hours helena has been focusing on her dreams, thoughts, everything, trying to place the mans face. She didnt see his face, but she knows it. Reaching into her jacket pocket she finds a piece of paper. On the paper is an outline of her dreams written in his hand writing.
Warren was growing old, brittle, gray. He could feel the grinding in his bones everytime he moved. He felt like a skeleton, stuffed with dust covered with pressed paper. His shoes were over 50 years old, the brand didnt exist anymore, the leather was outlawed when he was 20. warren still wore suits, bisiness suits, like what you see in the old films from the 30s. His jacket had an inside pocket he had custom sewed in. he carried a leather bound notebook in it, he bought in france. Most of the pages were filled with poetry, some empty, some tatters, crumbling like ancient tissue paper. Warren had an old fountain pen he bought with the book in this pocket as well.
It wasnt very often warren would remove the notebook from his pocket, but when he did he would write furiously. When he slept he put the notebook under his pillow, it never left his side, even when he baithed he put it on top of the toilet seat. Warren would dream about his poems, the poems were like a script. He would act them out, shoot colors from his eyes, lighting words from his mouth. But there was one poem he would re-wright over and over. It was about a girl he found in the park, sleeping in the grass. The moon made her so vivid, he wanted to touch her but was afraid.
Finally half atleast, since he first wrote this poem, before he ever recited it. He decided he would change it, make it a bit different, he had never changed one thing, not even where the words sit on the page. Warren decided he would whisper into her ear the poem into her ear. Warren wrote the poem, then wrought it again inside the poem.
That night in the dream, warren kissed the girl on the forhead. In the dream he was allways 20, so felt none of the creaks or grinding, it was his only exscape from it anymore. Then he wrote the poem on a piece of paper, recited it gently warmly into the girls ear. Put the paper in the girls pocket kissed her again. Then walked into the shadow.
Helena laid in bed, reading the poem over and over. Finally she went back to the park, went to the same place. Helena then read the poem outloud, softly. A figure appeared in the shadow, gently walking towards her, then whispered. "your awake, why do you have my poem? Whats your name?"
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