The Silence of It

"Then you're lying to YOURSELF ! " she suddenly yelled. 

And they both fell silent on the phone with the echo of it. The shock of her never-raised voice,
( and ) of his constant reserve.

The aching silence of wanting, without him entirely being able to. 

The pounding mess of it - that they'd been trying to replace.

( ( ( 

But they were so good before.
When they took the city.
Ohhh, and when, and when... when they danced… she kept spinning him 'round while he laughed. Pulling on his tie and his heart until the music wouldn't breathe. 

And he stopped, and took her hand,

and said -

"trust me once, just follow me once. 

we've got to stand on that Ledge, cause there's nothing to fear….stop shaking baby, 

look -you're up so high and I've got you tight" 

She really would have kept him for a little while. 

But the past, you see, has a dagger out for the remedies we find to fight the memories - when vices won't suffice. 

When fearlessness calms. 

So he goes back in the boxing ring till his muscles go numb. Till her perfume fades from his neck. 

And she goes back to never sleeping alone.  

) ) ) 

"Stop shaking baby, stop shaking and tell me about something else. Let's talk about something other than us. 
So I can talk to you one more time" 

But her voice broke and wavered.

And she hung up the phone.

And he called back over and over, as she watched it blinking in the darkness.
But never answered.

Eventually they went silent again.

Headphones: The Swell Season's "Leave" and "Low Rising"

Travelin Man

He leaves possessions in all the homes of the women he's had. (all those beautiful, captivating women.) There's worn-down books handed over at dusk, and painted stones and postcards...and framed pictures face-down in boxes. -
Think maybe, he thinks those things will lead him home when he's done.
When he finally picks a home.
Cause he's a ramblin', travelin' man...
Speaks softly, grasps gently, walks quickly, smiles downward...and sleeps alone even when he's not.

And when I had him - when I had him he carried a music box in his pocket and lingered with the dust of the road on his boots and tires.
He listened to jazz, arrived early, and left for the day at first chance. Holes in his suits and my scarf round his neck.

That was a few characters (we've played) ago.

So just once a year - I unlock the back of an antique box and take out a postcard - trying to remember all those tiny loving moments of the everyday of him -
But it's somewhere in that distant, flat scope of land out there.
It's just the echo that I can brush clean, barely. Once in awhile, with a smile.