Walking softly, barefooted, I traced my city-bleached hand along the soft, weathered&worn amber hatch. Smelled the whooshh of scents still stained into the wood, the fabric ..and the now-cobwebbed corners.
It still smelled of everything before us.
It was still mine, ..once - as the waves swooshed outside.
It all looked just the same.
Lying down on my old side of the bed we shared - atop the very same old sheets (I realized) that I'd quickly thrown atop it the day we packed up - it was as if, all of it, had been another story written once for fun - for passion - for satiating, maybe a never-ending desire.
There went - there it goes...another one of those weird, excruciating moments I've come to live beside - when your old self slams against the "grown-up" with such force that the rigging SNAPs and the boom swingsss, and POPS.
But you laugh.
And I'm remembering again how to duck in time.
Remembering again my old reflexes.
Old joys - that go like, like "happy thoughts" when I'm...sailing, tugging the line just right, leaning my whole upper half off the side; peering into the sunset. Studying the waves for what's to come.
Backwards cap and old freckles. Back again.
That's where I love from.
Even if I've been forgetting lately just where I belong. Where should it go?
See, the waves can only tell you certain things (when you demand too much) - They can only rock you,
and only throw you,
-only sadden you,
and only ease you into temporary peace...
it seems.
Cause they scatter
into puddles
on the CONCRETE.
Ohh, how they do s.c.a.t.t.e.r. At the shattering point when rain hits the same screened windows and falls again, and again...
How we fall again...and again...
But what's the last one? - the last bead of Bay water - that runs down and immerses the path of it's little trail.
I'd like to know a new story like that.
Maybe I just need a new city again.
Daily headphones: Adele's "Rolling in the Deep", Matchbox20's "Real World" and Bob Seger's "Turn the Page"
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