On the days that I do not love you my love looks nothing like love. In fact, it looks much like not quite the opposite but an in between state: A half-working key, an almost soundless note pressed against my finger-tips.
Maybe they use a light bulb,because memory is only aflash,a quip of a quick blinding burn – – a faint tingling remainson the tip of my thumb, but I don’t know where it came from,I don’t remember how it happened. “What was I saying again?”
Sometimes I like to compare myself to an old man. Note how I did not say old woman – for old women have a special quality to them which old men do not: you can see it if you brush away the dust, buried inside them is a treasure chest where pearls of wisdom remain.Continue reading “Old Man”
When Time fades, and the clocks melt away,I want to be right where I am now,not beside another name, place or day. together but alone, is how it’s best,together is where we shall be,isolated from the rest. this feeling is our home,that we have built from the ground up,the foundations run smoothly,even if they tookContinue reading “Quiet voice”
Name here, Sign here, sigh there, Wear and tear of the town, causes tearing of hair, baby cries — — closed eyes. Lullabies sung, Tumbling now that standing up has come, Standing on your own two cold feet, good bye — –I smell, the Muffin Man, hungry as I run to Drury Lane, a girlContinue reading “Drury Lane”