All the Shades of Pink and Gray

This one is from the Vaults of The Sven-Bo! I believe I wrote this piece in 10th or 11th grade, quite a few years ago now. It tells the story of a stingy man's observations as he makes his way back to his apartment in Manhattan, passing by seaside restaurants and sweetheart scenery. As always, feel free to give your feedback and let me know of your opinions, thoughts, suggestions, and overall reactions.

All the Shades of Pink and Gray

I see

romantic smiles,

wishing,

whistling in the streets,

passing by

bar windows and restaurant tiers,

walking docks and piers with hands held tight

as he nibbles on her ear.

I watch the people sip their wine glasses,

tip their hats,

and take shots by the masses.

I see the colors painted by neon lights and chain-link fences;

basketball courts, and back alley fold up chairs.

I hear laughing

in the moonlight,

tripping on each others' heels.

It feels,

like movie reels,

watching them cuddle by the sea,

skipping stones and sifting through seashells

in their land of make-believe.

A collage of shoebox thoughts

and jean pocket letters,

flowers bought

and peacock feathers.

Sharing dinner

and in their heads both worry about the bill.

Hours pass like grumpy mailmen

and I think I’ve had my fill.

I smell perfume:

A pheromone dance and a walk in the park.

Fate seems wrapped in bulletproof bark,

but tonight, that's all I'm peeling

as the fog and brake-lights hit my eyes.

I’m captivated as I watch them pass and look up toward the sky.

The colors of the sunset seem faded,

the clouds above me seem jaded,

and while I hail a cab back to my apartment,

reality feels baited.

With my hands in my pockets,

my coat slung over my knees,

and my spine chilled by

the cold leather seats,

I try to avoid my reflection in the window.

I tip the man a buck

and add guilt to my own increasing innuendo crescendo;

I’m out of luck.

I teeter my shoe on the cracked concrete step of my stoop.

My street is awkwardly quiet

and makes me want to leave again soon.

Grinding the teeth of my keys in the lock,

twisting my cold hand,

I see a rose petal beside my foot

and wonder what breeze had brought it there,

but I disregard the lock,

I disregard the keys,

I see this petal sitting lonesome,

only inches from my feet.

It brings a smile to my stubble,

something strange, and subtle,

a flutter of the heart I had forgotten and refused to know.

Reaching out my sullied hand,

my heart fell lighter than the rain

and with that smile on my face,

the rose petal blew away.