Tuesday, June 21, 2011

not so much

When we write together it is as if the world opens in the words. It is slow love, a quiet thoughtful laugh, one of those soulful looks I crave. It feels like respect and it remains as a memory of once was upon a time. A sweet little fairy tale in my mind when the dream seemed shared but I truly knew better. I tried to write a script but you were caught up in a story.

So I allow for no other choice and you grant me a view upon request. It is Rome at night, a Chianti as you drink it in wondering why did I never come here and why am I leaving. Thoughts of you being trapped in a mind of fear danced like flame in a reflection. You were never scared, the fear was just a want of mine.

If you feared then I could hold you, play the brave one, prepare us a place. Silly, silly girl.

He says, Be aware. My eyes grow heavy and the dreaming begins.

When I dream it is not of Rome or Belgium or London or anywhere but here. I can take the heat 'cause I work for air conditioning. The stories come straight from the soil and are planted into the people through a vine ripe tomato. The watermelons are chilled and my niece shows me how she can dive into the pool.  We take a Sunday afternoon drive to the bait shop and go home the other way hoping it is longer. Old cane poles and catalpa worms, a straw hat with a large brim. We sit on five gallon buckets and drink cold beer from a cooler of ice.

I find shade, tell you the story of elusive land and how the list grows. Dirt roads, scarce hardwood, what didn't get planted this year. I laugh, turn to see your smile and find you are gone. Oh yeah, you were never here. 

You were in Rome.



Still I am grateful.

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