Aiming for a creative life

I Am Santo

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The skull crack violence of an August sky allowed warning, and yet still it trapped. Were they not aware of the overhead boil of the atmosphere, they couldn’t have been less prepared. But they knew. They stepped into the storm together, fingers laced and knuckles white, and stood at the edge of tomorrow as if it were a cliff overhanging the crash of an agitated sea. And he knew to jump would be uncertain flailing, but he believed he could fly. And she knew that to leap would be discovery, but she wanted to seize faith. The rain took up all around them then, the howl of Summer’s lust catching them before they could make any decisions and still they hung on to each other. Spun, tossed, unmoored from familiarity, they hurled into the rot of serenity, hands locking as their limbs bent and broke, and they screamed from the sweet pain of comfort being ripped from them. They were blessed, moved closer together, stared into the eyes of God and found themselves staring back. The gales shuddered into breezes kissed by sea spray, and the salt of the air cushioned their descent. They landed softly among the bones of old hopes, spines of volumes written in deference to old dreams, and they breathed together, into each other. Today had ended, becoming yesterday, the pain of now yielding to less harrowing tomorrows. They drew strength in embrace, but untangled, pulling their broken faith from the fresh memory of their fall so they might climb, grip and be swept up again, tiny paper hearts willingly tattered in the maelstrom of desire.


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