Flakes
Flakes
They said that he was a flake.
You know, strange in some way
that they could not grasp that did
not fit into the dictates of their ethnic
ghetto upbringing. And so he rebelled.
Not against them, not against the
ghetto ghosts, but against the pressure
to conform to their ghetto-ness.
She was also a flake. You know the
type, strangely happy about being
alive. Entranced by the movements
of a butterfly, raising her arms and
copying the butterfly’s motions. Her
hair would just not obey the rules
of religious righteousness. Nor
would her flirting eyes.
They were flakes, and as such, knew
that no two flakes are alike. They kinda
liked that, cherished the flakiness of
the other. It seemed that they did not
march to any drummer, just meandered
to a music only they could hear. It was
the rhythm of an unknown heartbeat,
the “whoosh” of a passionate pulse,
the warmth of life breathing.
They are older now. They are still “Flakes”.
He holds her butterfly hand and they
mimic the movements of the wings
knowing that they, like the
butterfly, will soon be returning to
a transformative cocoon.
John G. Lawless
8/3/2014
Sorry Andrea couldn't keep it short.
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