The Relationship by Christian Camacho

Meeting:

He sat on the edge of the wind, bobbing and flapping erratically, enjoying life when the sun was highest. His black and white appearance, made him obvious where the sea kisses the sand. He found love under a tree. Warm and broken, a flower, he stopped and engaged awhile. He was leaving kisses and taking the flower’s sweet givings. As soon as it had begun, it was over. He sauntered off into the sun, to come and play another day.

Waiting:

            I spent the day painting the wall, orange and gold, no particular pattern. I went in zigzags and circles, made faces in the wall, wrote your name, I wrote my name, I sponged on the gold and I watched. This creation of us, not knowing what we were doing, no specific path that we were taking, was at its beginning. But isn’t this how things start. The colors are vibrant, strong, dark, and wet with anticipation of what is to come next. Soon the colors spot, they dry, leaving the anticipation in odd places, but they also soon dry. The wall is no longer wet. I have run my fingers along its rough skin. In the dark the wall is nothing. We are nothing. Oh, but when the sun shines down on us, watch us blaze to life like fire. The gold is running along the wall, mixing and resisting the orange. We are an orange and gold painted wall, and the sun is shining.

Mating:

            The tails of beautifully colored Siamese Fighting fish are famous for its flowing beauty and their exotic colors. They sway in the water. Dancing. They are jealous and vain, beauty is the epitome of the single fish, and no one else is better. They fight with the competition, making sure that the other is not as beautiful, but sometimes the beta will find love, dance its way to being noticed. Saying “I am worthy of you.” Flashing shades of blue, purple, and reds. Like men, the male has to show himself off to his mate. He swims and swims in circles, letting the female know he is here. He is ready. He is hers to have, finally.

Fighting:

           Stray dogs on the side of the road, always lay siege to the meals that I have laid out for them. Unwilling to play nice they bark, and pull what is theirs’ away. They claim what is theirs’ and hold on for dear life, but still the other fights. “It is mine and you are wrong,” they bark. They growl in anger of the opposition and in fear of losing what they need. Who will be the first to break, who will be the last? This bitch is not afraid to bite, claws out, teeth bared. This is it. One breaks “alright then”.

Leaving:

            We sat in the car; the only sound I could hear is raindrops breaking on the silence inside. My heart is beating like war drums. No one knew this would be the final battle, the war to end all wars. Two words have never felt more final. I retreated to the noise; the smell of rain fills the noiseless, space before I step into the midst of sound. Silence plays games, while sound wages war. I have come to a final stop, the force of raindrops striking me down hell bent on my surrender. Hell bent on hurting me as well. He reaches out for me, “You want to leave? Fine! Go! I’d rather be alone than with you, you jackass!” it struck home. He was a poet. He was intelligent. He was mine. It’s funny, he used to say he would not mind being a raindrop as long as he wasn’t falling alone.

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One thought on “The Relationship by Christian Camacho

  1. I have read several of your blog entries and I have to say that I was utterly fascinated by your profound lack of creativity. Many of your passages felt as if they were borrowed from texts around the world and did not come from a place of true sincerity or craftsmanship. That is not to say that your entries were entirely unbearable. I truly enjoyed the tidbit about being a raindrop and not falling alone. You have potential, but you lack the real motivation and true author’s spirit to thrive in the world of literature. Try harder and learn to think for yourself without using too many influences to force yourself into a field that you may not be suited for.

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