- Vol. 04
- Chapter 07
When the Thunder Died
Paint it as you want but there is no we. No more us. It’s just you. You and your pebble-brained tales, and blue birds of sappiness.
And somewhere between Christmas and mid-February, your tone turned from white noise to shocking blue. Blue noise; you filled the air with static graffiti and chintz hearts.
And by late March, I’d burnt your favourite chair. Tossed out your tacky plastic palm trees and pink flamingoes that you stuck in the deep-green pile carpet.
You said it was just like grass, except you’d never have to mow it. Never tend it; just walk on it. I’ve been shaking my head no to any faint scent of you because
somewhere between Christmas and those middle numbers in February, I lost my desire to go barefoot. Lost my innocence in the back of your tool shed. Lightning is no fun after the thunder dies.