Snippets. They shape us. They carry us along until we die. But that's life, living.
I looked out the window at the beautifully tangled limbs of a tree. And turned. His hands clenched the zipper of the green jacket lying in his lap. And everything was blurry. And nothing moved. And everything was silent. The zipper slowly trembled up and down, tantalizing. The background began to roar. Loud clouds of color burst into the outskirts of my vision. The jacket and its zipper were no longer relevant. They were small. And the impact they made will be forgotten. And nothing will matter.

Ornithology is the study of birds. Birds that fly. And others that don't. And birds that have no color. “Ornithology,” I said that one day. It caught his attention. The blunt force of knowing something trivial, that was all it took. And that led to so much more. And it will all be forgotten. And it won't matter because we are living. Sprays of images shatter on the walls of my skull. “Ornithology,” birds.

He sat beside me the next day. Because of knowledge that doesn't matter. The intellect is strange and rare. So he sat beside me. And we talked and talked, and I gave him my number and we talked and talked. Talked about everything. Yet nothing at all. He sat beside me the next day. And the next.

Our conversations lingered on everything yet nothing. A steady beat was picked up where everything was call and response. Information shared. Nothing personal. Just facts. Just friends. He never yelled, never got mad. And he never made mistakes. And in my eyes, no regrets or pain or secrets. And in my eyes, perfection. My screen blank. No texts when I woke up. And no conversation. And no information. But I wondered about him. And his girlfriend.

I wonder if they are birds with no color. I can imagine them fluorescent, soaring. I can imagine them doing a lot of things. I see him kissing. And his lips are parted. And his eyes closed. And his face tilted. And uneven breaths. And his arms wrapped around. And his tongue barely touching, tantalizing. Nothing personal.

He called the next night. And we talked and talked. Sleeping seemed unnecessary in my eyes. Nothing personal. We touched no touchy subjects. We avoided the awkward of awkward conversations. We had time. We had life. But we only had until December break.

It was chilled outside. And my breath left my lips like a ghost, a cloud of white. And heavy coats enveloped my body. And the trees were still full of green. And the grass was covered in a thin film of frost. And it was the perfect weather for dreaming. I saw a bird flutter across the blue of the sky. And I chuckled to myself. And I thought, Ornithology.

That day in December came too quickly. Slowly the leaves changed. And then they dropped off the trees. And the branches were jagged bones wrenched across the yard in all directions. The birds flew south for winter. The hug was too quick. And our conversations slowed to a drizzle. And then they ceased, not a word.

Snippets. They shape us. They carry us along until we die. But that's life, living.