Ashlandsblog

This one’s long-lasting. He parks his car exactly along the lines. Plaid blazer, plaid shirt, plaid socks, plaid scarf, and plaid pride. This man lives in lines, and he doesn’t cross them.

There’s a measuring tape in his pocket, and even if you think he’s not measuring the distance between him and another, he’s calculating it. A respectable amount of distance. He’s the kid in school who organized his stationery and waited for the teacher to praise him. And it all worked.

There’s nothing wrong with a man who lives in lines until he meets someone who loves crossing them. Diagonally. No measuring tape needed. No filter with words, no filter with what he wants to see. And so when they meet, lovely lines wants some fire. An ember- even an ash would do. To see what it’s like to break the rules. Jump the fence. Say the terrible joke (I think he’s crossed that line many times). I wish I could tell Lines you can only come down from a pedestal. But he’s worried he’s the single pillar holding up our sky.

But behind bars, he makes imaginary lines and jumps over them every time. And that’s why I’ve never seen him without a smile.