From my living room windows, the voice of Edith Piaf carelessly walks onto the heavy summer air hanging above 36th street. The piano mimics her steps, occasionally toeing out of stride and challenging the percussion that follows. Years and years have passed since her death, and the Little Sparrow continues to float in this procession of contained madness. Falling out of the window in slow motion, she carries me along and moves her hands through imagined knots in my hair, whispering lies I love to hear. The windows grow further and further away, until I can't remember the last lie, so I gaze into the painful dream that rests behind her face. We fall together but never hit the ground, and as Edith begins smoking cigarettes, I close my eyes and feel ashes fall over my face, burying me in careless dust. Then, just when I am unable to breathe, her pale lips produce the smallest stream of air, blowing the ash away from my face until I emerge from her spell. I open my eyes and see the needle spinning in the soundless void of a finished record.
7/18/10
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