It's been a long story, people
stare. It's been a strange and sad tale,
people laugh. It's all just as good
as the first time, until people
hide their grief inside seasons with
curtains drawn. The dreams come back on
line, people change and some go with
the fading summer. They don't care.
But because I love you, can you
please agree you felt it? Because
I must give the impression I
am living someone else's life.
A stranger animal in my
own aching head. Tell the truth, I
followed you. It's well understood
how I loved you the most. Letters
didn't lie, but people bullshit
their way through the day to day hurt.
Collecting little secrets, they
walk out the door. But because in
my mind, we're still friends who deserve
to be kissed like wildfire and missed
like home, I guess I'll be seeing
you around. Kisses are like an
intense kind of listening to
it rain. Because I love holding
your hand, do you even know it?
The beat goes on, people think and
forget the precious poems that
somehow made them feel alive in
the distant world's expanding cold
breaths. In the first place. Again tears
fall, people shrug it off. Some fall
higher, some step deeper, people
tunnel out in space, looking for
a satisfactory ending.
Did you know there isn't a film
you can't leave behind? We're getting
older. Just because you've come back
from the edge of hating all things,
it doesn't mean you are free to
deny you have wings to fly. Rain
falls down. Temperatures drop. It's
Thursday. It will be Friday. Tell
me one more time how you don't care.
Becoming a poet is a
silly thing to do with your life.
Silly yes and necessary. You are certainly there.:)
"an
intense kind of listening to
it rain"