I know I’ll pass by one day and you will have fallen down,
like every grandiose building I ever admired.
But will remain the fence, and gates,
and the trees that surrounded your being,
sheltered you from the prying sun,
covered your bare facade.
soon they’ll wear out,
as over-watered plants,
or your favorite piece of clothing;
first loose threads,
or a rip caused by the fall.
Its color will fade,
by the same sun you never allowed into your desolate heart.
Give it time,
it’ll turn into a rag.
the way you looked will evade me,
I’ll squeeze my brain to remember
your flowers that grew in unusual places,
the door you always left ajar,
that painting kept outside,
"too pretty to be locked inside," I’ll hear your voice say.
I’ll refuse to think of your dim lighted room,
by those scented candles,
the ones you made from scratch,
"scents can be bought, you know".
I never took a picture of you
nor of that building they took down a month ago.
I know I should have.
You see, I know,
but I’ll wish I hadn’t known.
Today marks the first time I ever see my face in my dreams. I have always been more of an omniscient narrator, who’s always there but not quite tangible. I used to be a floating body of ideas with no personal identification. A mirror with no reflection.
I would not recognize myself if I get detached from my body and accidentally bump into it in the street. But I recognized myself in the dream. It was a fully drenched combination of my worst features. The internal externalized to form the perfectly detailed image that I have of myself.
It was ugly. It was a mirror positioned in eye-straining lighting that delves deep into your bolted subconscious, not sparing one seemingly trivial detail.
Except I hate mirrors.
This is where I’d install a skylight.
I could only play the guitar while lying on my back, on the floor, in our solemn Louis seize salon. I do not light the room, even though its warmth bear hugs my soul. I do not wish to be consumed by the room’s vintage atmosphere; where my grandparents’ presence can be felt, where my parents had her wedding, where people came to offer their condolences some ten years ago.
This is where I choose to play music. I leave the window open to let the music leak out of the resonating room, through the neglected cracks of the neighbors’ loosely shut windowpane, into their hollow living rooms. I like to believe that they enjoy the often jumbled sounds I make. Maybe one of them likes to sleep on my tunes. I make sure to play until midnight, just in case. I always wished for a neighbor who played the piano.
Sometimes I wish I lived on a roof.
There’s still a grain of beauty and elegance that hasn’t been destroyed by the city’s ever growing ugly facade.
They tug on your hand while they shake
instead of a lifeless brush of the palms.
A glimmer in their eyes as they struggle to find the words.
A mumble, murmur, a wide array of disconnected thoughts,
while trying to assemble the intended meaning.
Do you dare to stay out? Do you dare to go in?
How much can you lose? How much can you win?
And IF you go in, should you turn left or right…
or right-and-three-quarters? Or, maybe, not quite?
Or go around back and sneak in from behind?
You can get so confused
that you’ll start in to race
down long wiggled roads at a break-necking pace
and grind on for miles across weirdish wild space,
headed, I fear, toward a most useless place.
The Waiting Place…
…for people just waiting.
Waiting for a train to go
or a bus to come, or a plane to go
or the mail to come, or the rain to go
or the phone to ring, or the snow to snow
or waiting around for a Yes or a No
or a sting of pearls, or a pair of pants
or a wig with curls, or Another Chance.
Everyone is just waiting.
abandoned in stairwells
with their dispelled reflections.
Still loved by all
carried in purses.
I wish they would shatter
fragments in the air
in my mind.
I avoid them
with all my might.
One glance won’t hurt
more, certainly will.
Is it the lighting?
no it’s me
must be me.
I’ve noticed that everyday you read a book in the shade of whatever tree you can find and I think that’s great. What’s funny is, I can sort of tell where you are in your book, because I’ve also read it, multiple times. Maybe tomorrow I will introduce myself and we can talk about how great the book it is.
I can’t help but get excited as you turn each page, because I know you’re coming to that one part. Oh, you’re absolutely going to love that part, I just know it, based on how you reacted to that other part. Maybe tomorrow I will introduce myself and we can talk about how great that one part is.
The problem is, I know how good your book is and I don’t want to distract you from it. You always read the best books. I love that you have such great taste, but I have to admit, it is terribly inconvenient. Maybe tomorrow I will introduce myself and we can talk about how great your taste is.
By then you’ll be done with your book, because I wasn’t able to put it down at that point. However, you’ve likely already purchased the sequel. I know I did and I wouldn’t want to distract you from starting it. Maybe tomorrow I will introduce myself and we can talk about how great the sequel is.
Yeah, maybe tomorrow…
This is a post to those notebooks I have that I will probably never write in because they’re too pretty.