Bright Eyes

Laura, are you still living there on your estate of sorrow? You used to leave it occasionally. Now, you don't even bother to ride that commuter train west to Chicago, to stroll through the greenery, in the park, past the statues. How their eyes seemed to follow you like a hated addiction. Their beauty carved out of absolutes that you could never claim, or even envision. Laura you were the saddest song in the shape of a woman. I thought you were beautiful, but I wept with your movements. I hope you are laughing now from that place of the carpet where we shared a sleeping bag, in your sisters apartment.