Tuesday, November 6, 2012
Hands Dirty / Shoes Taken / VCRs Running / Tongues Tied
Sometimes I get this urge to call you, but I don't know your number, but maybe I do, if you didn't change it. But what if you did, or you just don't pick up. So I never bother trying when I really feel like talking to you on the telephone. I get the spark to write out pages of lyrics to songs that remind me of you, that make me think of you. Some of these songs, you wouldn't think or image I could link to you, but I have and I want to write them out and let you know. I guess it would be easier to make you a mix tape thing. I wish I saw you more, but I then again I wish you actually saw me, that'd be nice. If you really did see. Me. I see a gap tooth or a good crack in the sidewalk and want to tell you all the wonderful things about them, the things I instantly love, but you're never there and I am always here and I can never tell you and by the time I may happen to bump into you in a crowd cafe - I won't remember and you won't really care. The change in season makes me breath fragments of you in the changing winds, hoping with each inhale I consume a tiny bit of your beauty. I miss you but I can't tell you because we say it like sorries, too often and never fulfilling and we say it as a thankyou, polite and acceptable, but never very meaningful. As if my missing you is like passing a fork. God, you're actually so beautiful but we are so toxic. The left over stardust that has made a concotion of madness and it works so well but is too stubborn to recognize it. To enjoy it, we pass like ships but never give it a go. Truthfully, I'd like to give it ago with you sometimes, with our clothes on and our minds naked. With our hands dirty and our shoes taken, with our VCRs running and our tongues tied.