POLLUTING

I. 

He had came to her one night in a rosy red dress. It was a beautiful kind of night gown with the hems extending outwards from his feet in an umbrella motion, shimmering a red glow even in the midst of night and swaying behind him like a flowing tail. He was still wearing his forest green military jacket on the outside; the crimson shoulder patches echo the color of the dress drawing him in the form of a somewhat unbalanced christmas tree. 

"What's the occasion today?" She had asked after eyeing him from head to tail. He revealed a clandestine smile and pulled her against him only to let his breath rain on her forehead for a couple of seconds, then made his way in casually up the stairs. Like a child, she tugged the hem of his skirt while taking extreme care not to step on his bobbing hem the whole way up to the bedroom. 

Feather and her have been lovers for eleven years, yet they were too different to be married and settled down. She spent most of her days at home gardening and painting, getting inspirations from her dreams; she would lay in bed for hours and hours, dozing off and waking up, letting images overrun her while she was half conscious, imagining colors, pictures, what love would look like.  Feather on the other hand, was always out traveling and living on the edge, moving to cities without electricity several months at a time, learning new tongues and almost dying on several occasions. But it was something between them, something that would always bring them back together in the end. 

  Feather had disappeared once for months and came back again with a shaved head and a buddhist monk robe, six ash-burned holes lined up in pairs on his forehead and greeted her a with slight bow and his palms together. He had came inside her house lightly with his bound feet and proper eyes and sat in a kneeled position before me as she examined his gaze. Almost simultaneously, she had discovered a playful boat, distant yet still sailing within his eyes of calm waters as he whispered in her ear, in a voice that licked my earlobe- form itself is emptiness, emptiness itself is form. Upon such words she had kissed him, and they were right back where they were.

II

He was the muse to her artistic vision. He told her stories of his adventures and she would imagine the rest, allowing them to seep into her dreamscapes and grow flowers in her yard. She had never once doubted him or considered the position of "love" in their relationship. She didn't believe in love. She thought love was only imagination; what is real is the colors and shapes you bring on paper, of the lives you bring and let die. Feather was a flower whose life never followed the seasons. He was most alive when she would see him, full of vigor and sun-kissed from journey. When he was gone, she watched the way leaves fell and counted the number of them in red, waiting for their corpses to fertilize the earth and make new blossoms.

In the bedroom she had reclined to a corner of the bed and giggled while anticipating what he had in play for her tonight. Feather was composed mysteriously as he gathered the fabric of his skirt and waved it around like a flamenco dancer, then with one swift motion he had lifted the hem and revealed a bouquet of flowers tied around his thigh, red and ripe and almost dripping with blood. Before she even had the time to react, Feather had grabbed the roses and fallen to his knees before her. "I love you," he said, "Will you marry me?"

She looked at him in shock and saw that his face was anything but playful tonight, full of sincerity and determination. Words found their way to the tip of her tongue but again slipped back into her throat quietly. She saw colors in her head again, an immense field of white stretching on for what seemed like days; there was nothing in sight, she couldn't even see herself. 

"I am an artist," she began.

"I know you are. What does that have to do with anything?" He questioned.

"So I can't marry you," she continued, "because I would lose my imagination."