To be the odd one out.

Peter. Peter. Peter.

I don't want to grow up. Not like this, with society's face pressed sharp against the window, etching their disinterested visage through the fog. I want to fly, where words make no more sense than the clouds' dissection in the sky. Where thought has no meaning and where facial expressions suffice. The key in the door stays in the doorknob and I am reminded of my seclusion. Oh, how desolation envelops the decrepit, the passive. The wind chimes flutter their whispers to the wind, telling of this girl's unfortunate demise.

Oh, Peter. Dear Peter.

Won't you lend me a kite?

------

The boy, ripened at 19, sits atop his dismantled draws looking to the crash site below. His hair falls over his clouded eyes as like glaciers they stand still by default. He brings his Benson to his mouth and breathes out cancer. Not a care in the world, despair had long left, having appraised the young fellow and deemed him bizarrely disinclined of its presence. The boy's hands stiffen and grip the edge unyieldingly. Men with broken top hats and ladies with half-lacerated corsages dance in a revolving circle, taunting him, asking of him justifications that he can't give.

------

The love. The fear. The spark. The tear.

Oh where, oh dear? Oh simply lend me your ear.

I'll tell you stories of elaborate fences and hoaxes and strange preferences.

You'll build up that wall, finely constructed, bricks and all.

I'll shout and I'll pound, but oh, you won't hear the sound.

But then you'll sit there. And then you'll wonder.

Oh why, oh how you could have made such a blunder.

------

Irony, like tar, flows from his mouth and taints her pellucid mind. We could make it, couldn't we? Ah. But there is the trick as he binds his arms around her. He whispers her promises of realities that won't exist. The ones that can't take shape in this dimension. The rain filters down upon the untimely couple and his face is petered out of its inconstancies and hers relays an emotion no longer relevant. You promised. Ah. But aren't all men fools, chained to desire?

------

He recites her sonnets. Floral vocabulary is his language of choice, yet she responds in simplicity. Each word coincides with the other. Who goes to say that the tiger lily is any more compelling than the lone daisy? The pictures he laboriously paints, she arranges within a few strokes here and there. He doesn't understand this as he grasps at words unknown. And all the while, as she listens in content, her eyes mask a knowing smile.

------

Conceited as he is charming, he dangles hearts on makeshift strings and lulls himself into a sedated stupor, identical to a child and it's beloved mobile. His dreams leave much to be desired as they catch him by the throat and knock the breath out of him. Unintelligible whimpers escape his still form on the unmade bed, disturbing the peaceful atmosphere. A ghost as he wakes, eyes a dull grey and drawn back in weary defeat. I'd pity him, but alas. My heart is empty and hanging from his nightstand.

------

Fingers accented with wrinkles, souvenirs given from his new acquaintance, Age, flit across numerous keys with visible skill and precision. One note after the other leaves the casual listener curious as to its inspiration. Its muse a constant question. At the end of each piece, the man routinely tips the checkered trilby hat atop his head with the causal pressure of his forefinger on the rim. He smiles and starts a new song, words lost amongst the jovial crowd. They know not where the man comes from, nor where he calls home, but know that wherever the music is, he will surely follow.