The Lake in September

I’m watching a man, with shiny black loafers in his hands—searching for something in the sand. I pull the knots out of my hair and ask him what he’s looking for. His eyelids are spotted purple. His heart is burning out like rain hits a candle. The man takes off his glasses breathing two heavy, and foggy breaths in the lenses.

I cup my hand like a visor to see the man with his gray dress pants rolled up. “I have everything, but I don’t have love” he said, still searching.

I get quiet and breathe only through my nose. My head hangs down like it’s on a noose and my hair draws curtains to shade the bright world. I hear the wave’s war and the kites gargling the air. My heels hit something cold and I dig to find a stone. I push the stone deep in my palm like it’s a limitless cave.

The man asks to sit next to me and places his loafers next to him. We look over to find a blonde boy with a carton of oil paints dangling from his arm. The man stretches out his legs while I start crossing mine.

The blonde boy dumps all the orange paint he had in the murky lake water. The man’s body stands still like he’s been injected with patience. His eyes spin into a galaxy like perception from the mysterious drug.

The orange is swimming in and out of the intentional waves. The only thing I can hear now is the man’s heartbeat changing into a safe sound. The sun melts in the pool of orange and disappears like lovers hands fit together. The man closes his eyes and life blows a kiss goodbye.

I shed a tear as the wind blows enough sand to cover his body. I look up and the boy is gone. I place the stone in one of the shiny black loafers—the stone says, beloved.