Thursday, August 19, 2010

still learning how to fall

I saw a man today, in the park. His socks were on his hands. And then another man, carrying a bag that stunted his growth. And then another man, made of stone. Then I sat inside an empty bus.

When I told you I loved you, you didn't believe me. Just drank from your guitar and strummed your cup. I was limp in your arms, on the black leather couch with the garish throw. I'm pretty sure someone was watching us and filling our mouths with words they wanted to hear. I was so sure I had gotten through, please God, maybe this time I was lucky, I was honest and hopeful and unabashed in my affectionate ways. I let my feelings chip away like plastic paint that someone uses to cover up a mistake. I thanked the Mother Sea.
But you just needed your guitar and your cup, leaving me to think my hands needed frantic warmth.