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A split second. A moment. Blissful spans of time stolen and remembered, of being able to see through two channels, of being able to see the world through his.
We don't work like we used to. Don't function like a pulley and string, or a river bed allowed to overflow. Red seeps through our waters and only one creek falls away to let us through. A result of letting the ice melt, flood our shores when he sees those in need.
Rocks hum hymns and pebbles shoot lines of red through white. The boat that used to come rowing sailed away into orbit, launched into an atmosphere we can't cross without being spotted by the rest of what makes up him. Grey folds, black strands, even darker clothing, it does not matter.
He may want us. We do not want him.
We want him all the time.
It is shameful. It is with a morbid curiosity that we venture forward when he calls upon us, an innate desire to desert springing to life when hurt becomes more known than useful. Make him hurt, blink, bleed.
Abandon ship, abandon ship. Cover the cost of war by switching to another gear, suffocate and close off the other channel with a black patch. Decorate the above and highlight the below, below of jagged, scarred lines, with monochrome hues. Get another boat. Blonde copycat, hoarder of time.
Let the clockholder copy us. Make rivers flow, harness oceans, seas, to stifle a tsunami that owns more channels than us. White hair, dark eyes; the taker of a child, river stolen from its river mouth with just a hand dragging down his face.
Win a battle. Win two, one. Lose a friend but foresee another taking chase, following you in the sky. Earn a friend, lose a friend; realize he is alive, then dead, alive, then dead all over again.
Tear apart the alive one for his grief.
Or don't tear apart at all, like we see (him) (you) do. Hear the water flow, bash against the coastal cliffs.
Don't let the loud one think you saw him cry. Tell him only the dead weep. Let him know without words he matters less in that moment. Watch his shoulders sink, knuckles clench. Pull away his punch and (do) tell (not) him (let) he (go) matters (of) less (him).
We watch him give away once more his hopes of three, stick to the blueprint of two.
Then we don't watch him at all for a time. Once more, he does not call on us like he used to. We do not see the fearful, curious gazes of their young, clad in those uniformed blazers and eventual smiles, nor do we see the loud one try and open his mouth, only to come out mute, blood seeping back into our rivers.
We do not work like we used to. No string is tugged, no boat rowed; the riverbeds remain drier than they've ever been.
A split second it is; being useful. A blissful amount given by someone who'd once deemed us unruly, him the consequence of our uselessness.