Red and blue

I died,
In a room with yellow walls
In a bed with blue covers that I'd slept in before,
In a moment much like the one following it and an echo of the one proceeding.
I exhaled.
After drawing my final breath. After seeing the loneliness beyond the moment. Of hearing the world more loudly, less clearly, a faint rumble of the end.
Distant but no longer distant.

I cried,
sobbed after I died, lying on another bed in a room with red walls
and blue flowers in a vase by the door.
Words hung in the air - floating like literate plumes of smoke
from mouths that exhale truth and pain
on red lips,
that catch blue tears - salty and scared.

I ran
After crying, after dying, after the moment had passed.
Ran for miles in the wrong shoes.
Till blisters formed and bled.
To see beauty in the world.
To watch the sunset reflected in the lake in the heart of the city,
To read shakespeare cross-legged on the floor of the library
To hear eclectic music played by eclectic people on street corners
And see families shopping
ad people fighting, eating and living
To carry on,
The way humans do.
Ran to keep running

I laughed.
At the absurdity of rain
At the coolness as each droplet tattooed my face,
At the journey it had made from a muddy puddle,
to a blue, clear sky
Only to fall back down and hit my face in order to float back up.
At the smell of rain,
At the women who run, clickity-clack of heels in puddles and newspapers held over heads to avoid getting wet, as if it will help.

I laught at myself, alone walking through the rain and laughing.