Still Sleep

My bookcase is about to fall, leaning like that famous tower, except not so glorious. A build-it-yourself cheapo that groans and moans and complains with the weight of too many books. With one push it would topple over onto the bed. Falling right down onto where we lay. My arm is around you, your head on my shoulder. You've fallen asleep and the world is perfect. I'm trapped underneath you. And I dare not move for fear that you wake. But it's good that you've fallen asleep. This way I don't have to move and I'd need no excuse to stay.

The mattress has no frame. It just lays on the floor. And the anchorperson on t.v. is talking about some foreign war. The faint voices grow dimmer and dimmer, becoming white noise to back up your steady breathing. I give you a small squeeze and lay down my head. Closing my eyes I smile. Because I know it'll only be a few hours until I talk to you again.

Clouded Thoughts

I can't get it out of my head. As this 2 AM fog rolls ahead. Ain't nothin' shining but these fireflies. The definition of concentration is for your eyes. I dive and dive. It's all in your eyes. It might be carelessness, that I admit. But don't dismiss me so quick. It's honest and sincere and true. What else would I offer you? Cutting a path through fields of white. Your voice carrying me through the night. Impossible, intangible, awkward, I know. Slow down my thoughts and we'll get through this alright. Your voice carries me through the night. I'll pretend and relax until it has passed. I know I can't bring time back. Emotions never last. So help me steady, help me slow. Wait till time is ready. Wait. I know.



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Secret Whispers

Sweet dreams are made of these. Nights spent sitting whispering quietly. The radio filling comfortable silences. Drumming with the beat, my fingertips softly against your palm. A rush of conversation followed by gaps of silent smiles. Ignoring the world encased in snow. The masses stopped short by frosty panes of glass. Inside our bubble a look and a touch tell more of a story than any newspaper article. Dark except for the reflections of the streetlights and the green glow of numerals slowly counting the time. And it is here, limited by time, unconfined by smiles, that we have truly slipped the surly bonds of Earth. I hope you are not one to disagree.

I could travel the world and back in one conversation with you.

Rusted and Fading

I saw you standing there. Alone. But you weren't lonely. Leaning up against a tree. Letting it's shade envelope you in cool shadow. Hands in your pockets, you admired the world. As I walked up to you, hesitant to disrupt your seemingly confident solace, I became nervous. In haste I looked around for something to give you. Pockets revealed lint and pennies, the ground revealed nothing but worms and grass. Until I spotted it. An old pop cap. Rusted, logo fading, it was beautiful. I bent down and picked it up, brushing the dirt and years from it's once shiny surface. I completed the journey to your tree and stood next to you. Without a word I handed you the pop cap. Taking it in your fist without looking, your smile was accompanied with a thank you.

Never taking your eyes from mine, you slid your hand into one of the many pockets on your military style jacket. Without ever gazing upon the gift you put it away for safekeeping.

I was confused. And apparently it showed across my face.
You laughed and in an instant you were gone.

Running.

Leaving me confused and alone, lonely, beneath your tree.

Shivering.

The Secret Hour

You won't remember anyway. Those few hours that we lay together. Silent. Our eyes talking away. The next day bringing rain. The next day bringing pain. Just as the snow erases your footsteps so will it erase our moments together. I would say I was happy to forget with you. I would say it does not matter anymore. But pinky-promises don't count for nothing, especially when I look into your eyes, they surely mean something. And I can't pretend not to care. This world is devoid of understanding. Karma swings it is hollow club once again. Even though I'm not sitting in a bar like Mac or Buddy, I'm still lighting matches to burn the tips of my fingers. But this is the world. Have Faith.

Isn't it strange, how only a few words can derail a train and bring the world screeching to a halt. How only a few hours can mean so much and except for the circumstances be meaningful forever.
Just imagine it as a secret. One for you and me. One to whisper after dark like schoolchildren at a sleepover. It would have ceased to exist. As time marches on in this world, a few hours would have vanished all together. With only us knowing where they had gone.

It does not matter what happens in an hour that does not exist. But to me, it matters more than anything in an hour that does not exist. Because you won't remember anyway. And if it was all a dream, I'd like to hallucinate again. I'd like to share a secret with you in an hour that doesn't exist. Let's take that hour and spend it on the other side. I know you can't resist.

And once time begins again. From midnight to thirteen back to one. You won't remember anyway. And even though your memory won't come back. That lost hour is all I want to keep.

And once the clock resumes its dreadful ticking, once you have left our secret in the dark. I will go with the flow. I'll throw out my pinky and promise to take life slow.

Can you believe it? Can you conceive it?

But it's possible I won't be able to resist.
And I'll keep looking for that hour that doesn't exist.

Lonely Bench

Hey girl sitting alone on the park bench reading a book.
You probably didn't notice me, tall, lanky,
awkward kid with glasses and a baseball cap,
black wires going from my pocket to my ears as I listened to Don McLean,
leaning against the giant oak tree twenty feet to your right.
But I noticed you, sitting alone on the brown bench.
How could I miss your sunny brown hair, converse on your feet,
heart drawn on your jeans with black sharpie, and cute smile
every time you read something interesting. But what I especially loved
was the fact that you sat all the way to one side of the bench,, not in the middle.
As if you sat in an open invitation for someone to join you and talk.
I wanted to walk over and sit next you, close but not to close, and point out the beautiful wildflowers lining the fence across the way.
No doubt you in your infinite wisdom already noticed them as they danced with the wind, but it would have been something to smile about together.
I leaned against the ancient oak for song after ancient song until you finally left.
It was only then that I had the courage to sit in the empty seat on that old bench.

Every Saturday since I've sat there, on the far side, leaving your seat open, hoping you would return.

Hoping you had more courage than I.