i miss him just being there anytime i needed to talk. he would just sit and listen and hold my hand. he could always make me smile, no matter what. and he would tell me things and i would just wonder why i couldn't stay there with him forever. he was everything. all my thoughts drift toward him and all i want is for him to be holding me again.
he makes me so incredibly happy. he makes me smile and he makes everything seem so wonderful.
"you know that feeling you get sometimes when your heart bottoms out? well that's how i feel around you.'
-the big o
Girl
Bring her golden high
Long carried distant
Scoffing tempting slow
This stranger calling
I will be finding these scribbled pages years on down. Wondering who that girl was - conjured like magic by a prayer near the coffeeshop door I worked @ as a young man. Leaving no dancing wisps of smoke, or curious opened eyes @ her sudden arrival - save mine. Cool night break smoker. Hot shuddered heart watcher.
What guess, what conjecture could have told me any of this, could have even imagined. Rising from steam and mist, and becoming this. So cool in the easy evening breezes. It could have been different, with a breath, and a heave of decision, a lightness in the air. And us breathing together, through streets both foreign and home. Coming here, for things neither of us could know, and it unfolding. Folding back upon us - catching us up like a trip on unknown ground. Laughing at ourselves and our doubts, at our doubts of walking. Your telling me enough, even in the cryptic look and brush away never to come again. Is it really all that simple? Like trusting as children. And believing as an old man does when he retells his life, "Everything always works out in the end." And the holding on, the forever grasp, the tireless grip that I wish for you, and do you wish for me? Open handed and strong. Bare and cooled by swirling grasses and mindless gasps and such. What is all thisforever open wondering. Some cool night break smoker enchanted by his easy moving life breather. Hold me in those prison arms and feel my madness for you becoming more, then returned, then freed. To breath again somewhere in higher altitudes, and the lowest plains. It is always the captured that are the freest.
And feeling nothing could change it, or destroy it, or send her packing. Long lost sister across the waters. I cannot lose her. She cannot be lost from me. For something bigger and greater than us, is upon us. In a magical bondage - I wish for her my deepest self, spared of my evils my sins and my utter grotesqueness - but I cannot spare her that, to spare her that would not be truthful and love cannot breathe without the truth. But I do not wish for pain, I do not wish for the sins of my fathers and the sins of myself, to be no more here than there. They have been covered and gone - and this is innocence. Like feet in cool waters. And long days on docks in sunshine. Or quickly lowering sunsets on the verge of a bitter winter. She will keep me warm though miles away.
Now time has gathered up the loose bunches, and present them folded and confused to me. Knowing full well that the forever grasp, the tireless grip, is open handed and free. Letting time tend to its' own healing, and love to its own growing. Unwatered, some plants will shrivel and pass on. And others untended grow wild and heady. Is this what it all is for me? To now come to some sort of belief in the possibility of love, and to wish to find that love, to seek its hidden and magic garden, its deep and buried treasure, in the shady grove of her. But not to be greedy, not to be selfish, to learn to love even in the distancing, and in the giving up, only to have later, only to have for the greater? It is not easy. For even now, in writing, with smokes and a beer, I cannot even speak to my longing for her. Wishing for her silence, her presence. Comforting. With no words, no posturing, only existence to mine. Bare. Easy. Confident in her fears and in mine. To let them be, and to only smile at these discomforts later.
Then tonight, with all these multiple swirlings around. Feeling detached and depressive. But not refusing a smile and a laugh and conversation for the sake of her. Being so representative of the joy that she gives me, willing to believe the unbelievable, to move past the familiar ground of where I have always stood firmly planted. And not to impress or to send some message of what I am not to her, but to give, to not hold back, to be unselfish for the moment. Saying in all of this you are worthy of happiness, and joy, and selflessness. Knowing full well my sins, and their constant houndings. Believing that here, and no where else, can I refuse my inclinations, turn aside the darker angels, and give freely what I wish to hide. She has never asked for it, but her existence draws it forth like water from the rock. As if that rock had always held that water to be given, but was waiting for the tap of the rod, and the simple words of a prophet.
I now know that I will never be finding these pages years on down, still wondering who that girl was magically summoned to the door of the coffeeshop I worked at as a young man. I know her. But I do wonder what these musings, and remembrances, these cathartic reflections will mean to me, and to her, that girl, years on down.
