Before greatness

On late hours, when spring is fighting to grow - outside, in me, in everything - I miss the people I knew, the people I’ve been — and it fills up that terrifying suffocating -of regretting- every wrong word ever said. When every word I’ve EVER said, seems like the wrong one now. I don’t know where I lost myself in it all, but I did, and now it’s done... Now the years have come and gone and — it’s one year later from the same exact old passages -- unknowingly, walking in the same doors, and the same dreams… Making the same charts and praying for change. Hating the nightmares that should be soothing memories. 

Change me back into who we were — all passion for life and dreams — all hope in leaps, and adventures came easy — and love was just a funny thing between our thoughts in nights. Between our bodies. Change back upon the tides, the crystals - the ah, hell whatever will work - so that we can all feel free again. The wildness and that peaceful trust.
That easing into new faces like it’s just a conversation. And falling like we, could cut the bare sky and swing upon it. 

Where has the wave of youth that was just here gone — where lies the second Renaissance? Cause all my lies, and all I’ve lied upon — now seems a big ‘ole mess. Where tapestries of studied words, crash into lamen’s woes - and on it goes a-spiralling while my stomach churns in turns. 

But then, there’s still the glimmer — there’s the remembering the lag before each fall. The vaulted ways, the chained and dragging feet — it all feels like thick molasses. And you ache to race, and you push to run - and still it goes so slow. But there’s a glimmering thought - a thing between night and day - where all seems bright and you look to what you know, you feel the "thing with feathers"- for an instant. The weary dreams form a wall or two before- you blink. You breathe, and flicker upon yourself again.
So it could start again; change your name - tell all the stories right this time - come home at night, and sit beside - your love and every inch of home. Homeward on and still it might just be — all ahead and nearly over. Please do say it’s so...

“the best is yet to be.” 

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The stranger that I walked with (Boston 2)

When I think of Boston, I remember the smell so well. And the stranger that I walked with, I hardly remember what I saw. But it's there somewhere in memory...like the cold rolls down from the hill, and there's a shiver I've had this whole frenzied week still. This weary body settling soon into the weekend and a different kind of quiet.






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November tides.

Sometimes the tide changes. Sometimes you don’t recognize - any face you’ve ever met anew - cause the world, is movin’ all the time. But you and me and November — we’re still the same. 

The silence and the miles — and California — everything that I don’t know, of all your 9 lives now. Out there wild. 

Just a never could be, now that it was — and I have known it. Known the thing worth missing — and a soul that’s true — a history that causes you to swear; if we met tomorrow how I would smile. And we would know each other still, despite it all. 

So where have you been babe? Cause I’ve wasted time, and made some things, — kissed a few and tried — missed everything at the end of each. Dreamed at the ends again of you. Lies and strangers, how they seem — like meant-to-be, and then, like nothing, all at all. Yes I’ve travelled, with quiet touch, over unfamiliar streets and skin...and yes I forgot for awhile and moved on. 

But there’s always a nighttime under the milk way — with a story to tell you — that I’d rather spend as us. 

That’s where I have been this second long year on — and it’s that sharp elegant month again. That commemorative time where I do think — of every circle I’ve made backwards. Every way in which, with the candles burning -- we stripped everything off back then. And how maybe that won't go. Maybe that's my lack of communication's cause unto. That's the one to beat. 

Or maybe I’m just writing make believe and metaphors, for those cold winter mornings all ahead. Maybe love — is some sweet strange combination of all the breaks you felt the Earth into, and there's magic — in a few different favorite hearts that you made all up into one. Combine it all — and hide from the rest — unto one great masterpiece, and see — life is funny dear. 

And wonderful. 

And that's the only good lie.

There’s beauty still ahead. Most importantly there’s the next you and me, who time has made of all of us  — time, time again for home… Can’t wait to see it tell. To tell a story to my children, of how it all went up — to November and to hope.

To moving to the sea.

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