Waltzing with an air unbreathable by most, spreading rose-scented perfume across the ballroom with her invisible partner. She dances silently, four inch heels without sound on marble flooring.
She is but a ghost amidst the others. A baby pink dress just above the knee, hair tightly pulled back in a bun, she dances. Twirling and bending and moving like no one else is even there. She is but a ghost to us, we are only ghosts to her.
My bench was empty, sitting there all by its lonesome. So I took myself that morning and went for a visit. It's been nearly a year... Two strangers once sat here and shared a humble conversation with me, both revolving around pigeons. I had told those strangers of a theory I had about new people. How they were my friends, and that I loved them.
He's kind of obsessed with this TV show that everyone kind of forgets the name of. But he knows there's blood and guts and bombs and clouds of sulfur everywhere so he watches it. He lives in his own world, not responding to those around him because they're too confusing. They speak too much, they speak too fast. He cannot sit there and wait to understand so he tunes them out.
She's a rough looking girl-- a curly haired, green-eyed, pale and pasty looking girl. She dreams in polaroids and pastels of greens and blues. If she takes her time, sometimes she can see into people's souls, through their eyes and all that. She can dance her way through the streets, not even receiving a single glance from the zombie like men and women who walk them. She's that girl who's there, but never there; her head always full of black ink that she happens to splatter on her clothes (just for fun.)
The park was quiet that day. The bench I knew so well was unoccupied, dull. I took my bright red shoes off of my socked feet and sat them next to me, just for color. It was an early morning, the sun not peeking its warm yellow eyes over the horizon just yet. I thought of the song "Hebridean Dream" by The Tannahill Weavers. It almost matched the look of the sky that morning. I kind of liked it, the silence. It was much too early for anyone to be out. That's why I questioned the man walking towards me, talking on his phone.
He sat next to me, that curly-haired, blue-eyed tall man. He wasn't the talkative type, because he did not wish me a happy birthday today. Although, I didn't know him, why would he? Sometimes people just know these things. He fiddled with his fingers, and the ring that occupied his index. I stared at it.
"It's my birthday, you know," I said to him.
He looked at me. "Happy birthday."