Umbrellas in the Rain Venice, by Maurice Prendergast. oil on canvas. ca.1898-99.
the rain fell with the tempered grace of tragedy, streaming its tears down their faces--lifted to the clouds to embrace it all. After an instant of just standing aboveground, looking at the s k y, she broke
the spell of s t i l l n e s s ,
reaching to pull a black umbrella out of a denim bag hung carefully on a dainty shoulder, opening it to cover them as they walked. In their tiny dry space all was quiet breaths and footsteps and he mulled quietly over what to say, something even nicer than the inexplicable sense that this silence was okay.
"what's your name?"
she smiled. "aya."
"cool. nice to meet you, aya, i'm-"
"don't tell me yet."
his slight confusion must have shown on his face, as she hurried to explain, "if you looked in the mirror and saw your face, what name would you give it?"
he had never thought of that before, but he liked the idea. he pondered for a moment, debating if he should say what he really thought-
"Acne Explosion. Memelord Supreme."
She snorted, but he wasn't finished. "Panic!At the lack of facial hair. Talking Trashcan. Pretentious Little Shit, oil on canvas. 1997."
her laughter was beautiful, carrying a rasp of sadness and sweet lilt of amusement.
It was a deeper sound
than he expected.
she thought he was lovely, but not like that. more than that.
YOU ARE READING
AYA
Poetryshe holds the universe tenderly in her quaking arms, but she is so lonely.
