I woke up to a beautiful vapor trail
Unexpected and orange, across the silence of the daybreak, its hue a kind gift from the waking sun
Straight and persistent, blazing bravely into the dark blue canvas
Most people, still in the midst of some incomprehensible rem sequence, or caught up in the rituals of an anti-daydream existence, will miss this
But I saw it, and despite my best psychic efforts to conjure up a boarding pass, I had to just let it disappear into the horizon.
Your blond hair less a sleepy golden storm, and more a cocaine and wine-fueled freak tornado
Your porn star body bends and twists a variety of ways, trained by Pilates and a growing desperation
A fear, ever so slight, of all things related to being a bystander as time passes.
Breathless, you feel you can finally breathe, and in your mind you make the leap from frivolous to faithful.
You do everything right to make the experience mind-blowing, hard to forget, impossible to not want to repeat
And we will repeat it, but only once.
It's OK, baby, karma will get me for this.
There once was a girl who filled a balloon with helium.
She was a pretty girl, and filled the balloon just right.
She held it for a while, then let it fly.
As it flew, against its will, the distance grew between it and her and the rest of the world below it Until it popped, somewhere in the atmosphere.
Armen Abalian is an Angeleno living on the eastern fringes of the E.U. empire. Armen spends much of his time taking photos of the idiosyncrasies of life in Eastern/Central Europe, composing music, and writing poetry, to varying degrees of success.