The Brass Ring
Am I too old for this, I wonder, simultaneously apprehensive and excited. It is my first time on a carousel, and I'm perhaps the only adult on the plastic pony going up and down, round and round. A smile is plastered to my face, that I can't wipe away - my lips remained stretched with a mind of their own. Smiling to ourselves like a lunatic must be the price we pay for unbridled joy, but who's to tell my lips that?
Was it the slight prickle I felt at the back of my neck, or the warmth on my cheek that made my smile falter? My pony keeps moving forward, like the seconds ticking by, but I turned around anyway, to find you. Were you a sketch artist, or were you scribbling away? I would've wanted to find out, had I not lost the ability to think. Perhaps, I'd regain it in a moment?
Someone beside you is smoking and for the briefest of seconds, your face is obscured by the smoke. A glimpse of the way your pencil moves confirms you're not scribbling. You look up, but our eyes don't meet, for you're looking at another part of the carousel. Look at me, my eyes plead. Yes, I'm too old to be on this plastic pony.
I've done a full loop, and I search for you again. You smirk; you've noticed. The sky seems to have descended to put this distance between us, that I'd give anything to cross. But wait! Do I imagine it, or does your ankle twitch, pulling you away, warning you I'm bad news? The girl from whom they tell you to stay away? Is that why those black eyes quickly turn away?
I may be bad news, but you're not naive. Could I, tell me, reach out like you were my own brass ring? Could I then pull you close? Do you know that I'm thinking if you prefer chains or silk ties. Could I find out soon? Are you drawing me, just as I'm writing about you? Or is that a caricature, of someone pretending to belong where they don't?
We have time yet. Your smirk is back, and I watch you watch me...
...going up and down, up and down...
...round and round.