about sudden deaths of
past acquantences from
friends abroad in London.
It's always London,
and I always wonder why
I am so far away in America.
I feel safe within
these four walls, even when
the heat isn't on and
the noise from outside
passes through reach me.
Sometimes I breathe
and exhale in the frigid air
just to see my breath
come out like smoke.
I sat at breakfast with an old friend,
whom I barely recognized after
the years of ignoring and running
and car crashes.
He doesn't deal with things
anymore, he doesn't
believe in himself any more.
We ate waffles and biscuits
anyway, and I listened to how
she's going abroad, just like
every other affectually
romanticized person of college age.
I saw another historic lover's face
in my dream last night;
he held me in his arms,
just because he could and
for a moment I wondered
why I refused to let it happen.
And I saw how the daffodils
came and then died, and remembered
how they will be coming again,
but he will be gone in another country,
just like the rest of them.
What was it like when
I wasn't in America?
I wasn't in America?
Setting sail, taking flight,
running across oceans to
see other countries,
pastries and beer and
good music and dance.
And that sense of yearning,
to be there and be held,
to be traveling and be living
must translate into your
conscience, into your action,
in to your words and thoughts
and emotions that never end.
I have technicolor emotions
that pour out like rainbows
on fresh white canvas.
And blushes that turn
my cheeks crimson,
erasing untouched innosence.
Or maybe I SHARED myself long ago.
Street lamps are still guiding me,
only now there is a hill
instead of pebbles wandering
into other worlds.
Well, still pebbles,
just more of them sliding
down the slope, into the road below.
Escaping flowers, protected stalks,
bitter dead friendships that
I miss despite myself.
Some days all I want to do
is go to Spain and sit on the
street corners with you.
We could live on bread
and orange juice, and take
the long way when walking
home from the latest movie.
Sometimes things just tumble,
like waves over packed sand
and I wonder if the moon will
be full at night;
I saw a shadow cast from
your body at 2am on
our walk home.
Writing on brand new fences
with sharpies, or throwing
snow into faces and running
like five year olds after
doing the things that we do.
I'll share this smoke and
drink this drink and please
let's share our tarot readings.
I'll laugh at how right or how
wrong it is that the devil
showed up in my history.
How incredible it is that I've
never met you before, and yet
you're beautiful and sensational
and I think we might be friends.
I often wonder where you were
while I was in the mountains chasing
around the tumbles of odd dreams,
or hording all the chocolate I could find.
I sometimes travel back to that labarynth,
back to the place we first walked in awkward
circles and you read from hand-written
sheets copied from the internet.
The things I read seep into my mind
and I take them for what they are,
and sometimes for what they are not.
It said female empowerment;
I answered yes, please.
And what does it mean that you are
a white female in middle class America?
Who really is paying for this education,
and why don't the children understand
why reading is so great?
And I still love the sunrise,
and I still wonder why it is that
the only time I met you, you were
raving drunk with a pint in our hand
and a look of determination;
you weren't letting go of your vices
for all the gold in the world,
or questioning why you
needed them in the first place.
Sober up, let's watch the sunrise
and remember what it means
to love the daylight.
And another, there are so many,
he is in Georgia taking photographs
of God knows what, hopefully finding
the truth emerge among his works,
without regret for the past.
And hopefully he remembers me
in a few years, when he comes to
a point of division in his life.
And where are all the great
women in my life?
Why doesn't she care that she
hasn't got a chance at making it
without a man?
I'd given up on hoping
for anything more.
But the man that comes
to tame us all must remember
not to step on our toes.
I don't think of you much anymore,
except when I lay in my bed alone
and remember those nights when
we squeezed onto a twin sized mattress
and shared the world together.
It's still odd to me that I might
often meet the most interesting
people with a drink in hand,
trashing all the latest parties
and hiding what lies behind
the facade of apathy.
And I love the phone calls that
come at random moments
from the very people I thought
were dead; they dial without
hesitation to tell me about Ohio
or Mississippi.
And sometimes we find
a conversation that's been
fated to occur, on some late
evening in early February,
some conversation that was
inevitable- and I see you
for the first time, even if
you're hours away.
What if I walked there,
just for this conversation?
What if we walked for a while
in the snow, and then passed
out from exhaustion under
a street light and weren't found
until the sunrise?
I love the sunrise, even if I
haven't seen it in years.
