Parasitic

Trumpets, horns, violins, drums and one low, grumbling voice wrapping its soothing deliberateness through their ears like an odd, silk ribbon. How long will it take before the deep sounds wear off? When will all of the lazy sunday afternoons in late autumn detach themselves from the spring sun that shines on the sidewalk which breaks off at the intersection? Hours had once passed by and rain rocked the two to sleep, until they awoke moments later to realize that they weren't both supposed to be there. Suddenly the slow, warm afternoons are claimed by tension like a wrench cranking and tugging at the pegs until they're torn out from their comfortable, unified board. At last the sun lowers much later that year, and the two are nestled in a gathering of fabrics and soy products, yet there's a sudden panic after this rain. The warm afternoons were platonic and often teeming with contempt, but week after week, they rolled around in anticipation. They were consistent and reliable. The fabric and soy were only meant to be admired, they weren't supposed to mean freedom.