The way you look at me -
I can sense it sometimes.
The way things might well be
No scramble for digital time.
The way you laugh at me
When I say something silly or feel awkward.
The way I feel so free
To look you in the eyes and not flinch.
The way your fingers curved
That first time when we reached out.
The way it must have seemed absurd
To all the other faces in the crowd.
The way we found ourselves
Paused and looked up and down nervously
Thinking "eyes" and "lips"
And not allowing "could this possibly be?"
The way you trust me implicitly
Like your hair and coat - natural and free.
The ghosts of horses pass
And I finally had the courage to be me.
The way we hint at tomorrows
And you approve it with a cautious smile.
The way you suggest new air
And I know I'll be whole when we get there...
(Written: 11.20pm, Tuesday 10/10/00.)
I seem to be revisiting old notebooks more than usual at the moment. Revisiting, but not revising. I believe that some things should remain as they fall. Looking across from my desk, I was drawn to the old blue book that holds this particular memory.
I hope you'll forgive my clumsy lines and thank you for obliging me by sharing them. If you stopped by to read them, you have my warm gratitude.
I'm afraid I can't give you much background on these particular untitled lines. I think I recall who it was written to, for or about.
But I can tell you when it was written. Because I have a habit of noting these things whenever I write. I'm a little disappointed that I didn't record where I'd written it; I usually make a note of the postcode or country I'm writing in. To me, when & where I write something is almost more important than what I write.
I'm not sure why, but it works for me.
Maybe it's because I don't keep a diary. My attempts at songs and poems are my journal, it seems. My default way of recording whatever matters to me enough to move my hand and heart.
Thanks for stopping by. Be happy....