I was talking to a friend of mine.
It was early but we were both late out
And we mouthed at the reflection
In the other's eyes.
And as we hugged and headed back down
She gave me my umbrella.
(Forgotten some night before).
We traced :
zn+1 = zn2 + c
on our ways home
talking through the marvel of telephony
Warding off the highwaymen
of this Babelbound city.
We each in turn reached our houses and
struggled with the keys,
Flung our luggage on the floor
groped our way up on hands and knees.
But before then, the most important part,
Yeah, there was this - this umbrella -
Yeah, and I was walking home,
swinging it in all kinds of orbits,
both hands locked in tighthand fists
mapping how Mandelbrot taught us,
Wave-particle duality between my wrists.
The umbrella canopy leaked
the fourth colour into my eye, which
Since has never opened so wide
To the prospect of some sort of meaning;
I fell in love for the last time -
I was walking back with it in my hands.
Wish I could remember where I got
that umbrella.
I left it somewhere
I shouldn't have.
But still I can see the umbrella spires,
Spinning through my hands.
I was a match glowing in the dark
And I thought for maybe just a second
I was floating a couple feet high;
it was like a renaissance.
My lungs opened up
to the smiles of a kind of symbol,
beckoning me into the sky.
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