Off the record, off the charts, off the books. Nothing is wrong with my memory. It tells me what I saw, how it was. You like a mirage through the rain. “I’m in a mood for you,” you sang, “for running away.” Sweeter words were never swallowed. I almost faded waiting to hear you again. But even your words shine through a dim day. The taste of you and the reminder of your touch remain. Never fading. Never growing old. Like in that perfect instant snapshot, clinging to a love that would always be a hallowed figure, dancing in the rain.
we bend
time seems to bend
like a Dali clock
sort of warped and messy
when I’m with you
or talk to you
or think of you
I feel like myself
during our time
sort of warped and messy
with no constraint
or restraint
or construct to hinder us
What I Can Do
I’m not a seamstress
can’t weave or sew like my grandmother
I’m not an artist
can’t paint or draw like my other grandmother
I’m not an athlete
can’t play ball like my uncle
I’m not a chef
can’t cook gourmet food like my other uncle
I’m not a gardener
can’t make things grow like my aunt
I’m not beautiful
can’t model like my other aunt
I’m not a doctor
can’t patch people up like my parents
But here’s what I can do
I can hold you
I can write the right words
I can love you
still standing
I’m slayed
amazed to still be standing
oh it was so worth it
the waiting
the anticipation
the hopes I kept
on the blackest nights
are dim now looking on
the other side
is a richer green tasting sweeter
the words I’m fumbling for
seem inadequate
not enough
the thrill of right now
washes over
and I won’t be able to look back much longer
old songs in the wagon
she entered the story
heard that old song
could almost feel his lips on her neck
remember walking up the two flights of steps
just to say goodbye
over and over again
she began to write looking to echo lost love
but somehow found heartache
that she thought had been long buried
but was not quite dead
she had not seen it coming
until it came out of her fingertips
she recalled thinking he was the one
he had told her she was just another
but she could not leave
not after that night at the window
when they had seen beyond the music and the smoke
into each other’s souls, as trite as that sounded now
careening down the highway in that old wagon
it was pouring rain and she ventured nearer to him
that song played and fit like a perfect soundtrack
they had so many lost weekends as the years flew by
but he always held her aloft and she wanted to land
as he spiraled into his own depths she could not shake him
so many years later the lines of the song
were now etched on her face
he was back from some lover’s graveyard
was almost flesh and blood the memory was so vivid
her skin tingled as it had after the final embrace
but she was writing the story now
writing the story did not give any of the time back
it was like looking at old polaroids
awkward and poorly lit memories
that served to remind and illuminate and entertain
and it was just possible not to lose one’s heart again
if only the words were kept at bay
