She had a pastel typewriter
or maybe a light green if you uncovered it as the sun awoke
although that rarely happened
instead it looked a mossy brown
suffocating next to an old lamp, dimly lit
as the keys clattered into the night
my disheveled skateboard was too old to keep up with her 1960’s pickup truck
my feet too clumsy to follow her under the blinding lights and disco balls
she cried just as much as she laughed
but the tears always ended as quickly as they came
her eyes
the center of her own private storm
i miss the sound her voice made
when she folded her thoughts and placed them in my palm
the way her lips danced across my ears
how she smiled
through each tear, each kiss, each laugh,
each origami note she placed in my chest
i saw her by the church sometimes, though she never went inside
and when i asked why she never answered
i think the local diner was her sanctuary
red boots on the countertop, sipping on a strawberry milkshake she never paid for
she lived her life like that pastel typewriter
no deletes or backspaces
pure unaltered creation
she was real, like
a long emotional breathy string of words, unfiltered
mistakes and all
no deletes or backspaces
she got real quiet sometimes
as if she could hear the ghosts dancing
a tune for two only heard by one
and sometimes she drank too much
i carried her home, but her mother never seemed to care
no one ever met her father
sitting on that tattered sofa, i’d listen to her drift asleep through paper thin walls
staring at the oval table beside the window
a mass on top draped in worn linen
i’d wait until the light crept in before i removed the sheet
to see that pastel typewriter glow a light green in the rising sun
until one day she was gone
the only remnant that pastel box
By KJ Richmond.
