Saturday, April 18, 2015

free association (o, the words)

.isnt free association good for you?.
February 16, 2011 at 10:07pm

It wouldn't be the first time I was without words.

It's not our first day at the track, our first lap, our first round or first drink, carrying two cups through the crowd in the club, but I bend. I'm weaving my way through all of them, through all the crowd of reds and blues to you. Heh, yeah. I'm doubled over at the strength of being drawn to something I tried (well, barely) to forget. To nevermind and overlook. Nah, not my style.



I'd write about it if I could find the words, but the pen won't move an inch, my hand won't move a muscle. My feet? Yeah, no fucking steps.

I'd paint it if I could pick the colors, if I could frame the horizon around you.

I'd sing it if I could  narrow down the notes, the pages and pages of sharps and flats I'd need to tell them an aimless history of what I've been watching

Since I've been watching

You.



All the times I'd watched you move in the dark, in the glow, in the afterburn of what we all knew was everyone's private time. Everyone's time alone away from home  - We roamed and huddled together in the shadows and cold. We danced in the dark until we forgot our names,then we met each other again and again - Never understanding, but never caring,

Nevertheless we all found the same roads in the end, apart. We all got the sensation that we'd all have to walk our own ways until we could do it again - Until we could come back to watch the setting sun sparkle on shimmering water.



Yeah, I'd find the words to say I want to do that every day if there were some. I'd slash at any canvas with cans and brushes and stripe any lined page with all the memories my heart swells with. Yeah, I'd write it all down in a song for you and anybody that's wants to take the time to hear it. To read it. To remember, cause I do.


Still, weaving my way through the crowd just to see, to check. Is it you?

Still - my beating heart thrashing back against my fist pounding my chest, still.

Still wandering these halls and bars and aisles of everything new for something, still.

Still wondering if we might find the time one day when we awake, for something new. For someone new. Still.

Yeah, I'm counting the days. I'm picking out my palette and all my p's and q's.

And maybe I did start painting, start singing, start writing, but not for anything but you