Struggling to come forward
Chained in invisible caveats
And wrecked by lightning strikes
Stabbing at imperceptible
But lingering pensee
And donnee
These imagined emotions
That play at severed heartstrings
Until all that is heard,
Is the creaking of a worn out bow.
Thursday, June 10, 2010
Sunday, June 6, 2010
beaches
Silent shores
Quiet moments
Wrapped in seas and anonymity
Some where
Some place
Some time
And nothing matters
Except the you
The me
And this feeling,
In the between.
Quiet moments
Wrapped in seas and anonymity
Some where
Some place
Some time
And nothing matters
Except the you
The me
And this feeling,
In the between.
that old sappy love story
The man is holding his tongue and his cigarette until he cannot bear it any longer. He is quietly watching, and he is quietly seeing life play out, life speed by. He quietly sees everything change.
What he would give, what he would still give, to know. He is thinking of all the things, all the people, he would sacrifice. He is sacrificing while watching.
A young man is loading boxes while two others help a fourth back a couch into the same moving van, and a girl, a young woman rather, dollies out one final load of boxes.
Her smile, the old man knows her smile. He knows how grateful they all are for the momentary distraction.
He remembers a laugh and a pause in a hug. He remembers the welling of tears, and a smile from so many of his own years ago, from when he said his own goodbye.
She had dark brown hair and she always smiled, and his heart always paused, always skipped, everyone’s did.
He knew his smile gave him away, that anyone within any reasonable distance could see what she did to him.
And as he is holding his tongue, and his cigarette until he cannot bare them any more, he pulls out his wallet, and from within its most inner cavity he pulls out a picture.
The three young men, the ones that have been left, are standing in a lose circle smoking, without knowing what to do next.
He walks over to them, and he singles out the one with the staunchest face, the one who has had the least to say, the one who has the most to bemoan. With a recognizing face, the man extends his hand and the young man notices a piece of paper. The young man takes it, and smiles a cautious smile to which the man returns a wizened grin and a knowing laugh.
And as his friends, laugh at the oddity, the young man looks down at his new treasure, and he sees her dark brown hair. He sees her and he cries.
What he would give, what he would still give, to know. He is thinking of all the things, all the people, he would sacrifice. He is sacrificing while watching.
A young man is loading boxes while two others help a fourth back a couch into the same moving van, and a girl, a young woman rather, dollies out one final load of boxes.
Her smile, the old man knows her smile. He knows how grateful they all are for the momentary distraction.
He remembers a laugh and a pause in a hug. He remembers the welling of tears, and a smile from so many of his own years ago, from when he said his own goodbye.
She had dark brown hair and she always smiled, and his heart always paused, always skipped, everyone’s did.
He knew his smile gave him away, that anyone within any reasonable distance could see what she did to him.
And as he is holding his tongue, and his cigarette until he cannot bare them any more, he pulls out his wallet, and from within its most inner cavity he pulls out a picture.
The three young men, the ones that have been left, are standing in a lose circle smoking, without knowing what to do next.
He walks over to them, and he singles out the one with the staunchest face, the one who has had the least to say, the one who has the most to bemoan. With a recognizing face, the man extends his hand and the young man notices a piece of paper. The young man takes it, and smiles a cautious smile to which the man returns a wizened grin and a knowing laugh.
And as his friends, laugh at the oddity, the young man looks down at his new treasure, and he sees her dark brown hair. He sees her and he cries.
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