Freedom: Now Streaming.
Written By: ReBecca DeFazio | More Than a Flower
Alone on streets unfamiliar; freedom tastes a little like fear plus your first cup of espresso with a hint of autumn breeze and sunshine shoulders. Independent bookstore faces always seem nostalgic and intelligent; tell me sister of words, “do you love it?” How dreams blossom through the words of gone souls; disappeared before our eyes formed but living in our mind’s eye as if they never got old?
The streets are loud like me, not like the place I once called “home.” I ﬁt here in the chaos, in the rush, rush – never “hush, hush.” Instead… “Read! Let the poetry ﬂow! The Bowery welcomes the stories untold!” Wow – I’m dreaming. Don’t pinch me though. My skin more sensitive than it may seem. Looking deep, his DNA never leaves; microscopic finger prints left even on my veins – blood never washed away.
I wanted to tell you a story; a little braver today, I spoke clearly of how I dream consistently about skinny dipping. “Still regretting that I’ve never loved my body enough to share it with the moon.” Put this on my grave stone… I whispered. “Remind me to write it in stories – these words can be secretly woven in pieces that are anything but behind closed doors.” He looks confused but agreed. I think sometimes it was easier for him to not speak. I – speaking in days plus years and he, running around the clock face trying to figure out where I lived exactly – 2003? Maybe? He’s wrong again. 2008 is when my life began. Remember? The freedom taste graced my lips then…I realized I hated ﬁsh. Always kept in a tank – I’ll never own one; deal breaker. He laughs.
Keys create music as they jingle and clash; dangling from my wrist, I whispered… “I don’t trust shallow pockets.” He heard me. I mean, I don’t trust shallow waters. “I hope your eyes will glisten right before they turn to waterfalls with deep caverns below; emotion bellowing. My wrists can’t bleed more than your eyes tear. You’d never survive here.”
“Let’s fall in love – don’t save me though. I’ll hold your hand, let go as need be. Freedom tastes like your first espresso remember? It’s tasty.”