Heist Rhymes with Tryst

It settles into the threads of my left purple shoulder,  lingers in my hair and the aftertaste in my mouth.

image by Laura Burlton

Does evidence cease to exist once cleansed with a little water and soap? Rainfall will wash away the coloured chalk dust etched on the pavements. A little scrub will loosen the dirt, now percolating through the pipes. Stains and scents swirling in silvery water…as though nothing out of the ordinary happened, no crime committed, nothing stolen.

I guess there are some things I can’t erase like the trace of someone’s palm or the coordinates for the Pythagorean Constellation (south of here, above a big private boat, look for the hypotenuse) or that peculiar gradient of soft orange to dusk purple. I didn’t bother about the footsteps. They lead to somewhere, nowhere and we’re really still in the same place. I am being literal, not poignant. This was incongruously picturesque, unplanned and unexpected.

Can cook, can bake, can make a trebuchet, can swim, can fence, can fix your computer, can play the guitar, bass and drums, can dance, can write a haiku, can dress, can kiss: what mythical creature are you?

This charming man, anyone can like and you know it.
I’m not thoroughly convinced, but intrigued.

Still, smooth that you know Shakespeare’s speculated birthdate, information easily retrievable from the inside of a Snapple bottle top and to quote of all things, this:

All the world’s a stage,
And all the men and women merely players:
They have their exits and their entrances;
And one man in his time plays many parts,

Charmed I am, mister,
but you’re going to have to do more than just words.