How can we fold 1000 cranes and let the wind blow them to where they belong, flying, fleeting to their destination?

You bumped into me again today, your hand rubbing on my wrist. I swallowed the drying candy on my mouth and finally looked back at you. It was still there, sweet silent rebellion. You turned away first, pretending to cough; I walked away.

As I felt your eyes quietly looking back at the shadows of my hair, I couldn’t help gripping the bottom seams of my shirt. Outside, I punched the wall loudly, cursing profanities at no one and nothing in particular. Slumped at the puddle, I waited for you, or at least the image of you that was supposed to have come out now.

I burned a cigarette and kicked the paper cups beside me. I squatted on the ground, watching the grass moisten in the air, fixated on the angular movements of the ants carrying around scraps for dinner. I was oblivious to the door opening and to the brown loafers staring at me. I did not need to look up, choosing the wonderful world of godforsaken ants.

You put your arm on my shoulder. I felt the quiver of your fingers playing by my neck. I prepared to look up when I felt the heavy rub of a golden ring on your fourth finger dance on me. The ants were all at their hill now, paying homage to their own true queen.

“Leave now before people start to talk,” I found myself saying.

You removed your hand from my shoulder and put it deep into your pocket.

“Maybe someday?” was all I heard.

“Someday, somewhere.”

You walked towards your car. On the way, you accidentally stomped on the anthill. Expect red sores tonight.


This is the 100 Songs Project, a 100-day writing challenge based on AFI’s 100 Years…100 Songs. Every day, I write a short poem, prose piece, or play based on, reacting to, rejecting, accepting, or doing something related to one of the songs in the top 100 list.

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