Thursday, April 9, 2009

Hands Reaching In The Dark.

Sweet Fred Astaire, you always know exactly what to say. Each movement meticulous and perfect, each line clever and rehearsed. You never miss a beat, never skip a verse. A smile, and subdue those with eyes upon you; a graceful twist and turn-on-heel to have them breathless, baited for you. If my voice could reach those notes, would I have your charm? If I could learn to tap my toes, would it get me very far? I'm sorry, but tonight I think in prose.

I've got my guitar in hand at 5 a.m., singing nothing but sad songs. I meant to write great things. I meant to cobble melodies together, bright enough to make you smile and loud enough for you to hear it always. It feels sometimes like my skin is in the way; a filter between what I want to think and what I mean to say. When finally they manifest and take shape, they're nothing like what I imagined, just more of the same. But I'm growing! Stretching, wrenching, tossing, turning and spending every restless night becoming. Yes, becoming. Turning into something I could, for once, bear to bring to light. Can you taste it in the air? It's lingering like a perfect kiss, haunting you like ghosts on the edges of your lips. A breath for every heart beat. And it does beat! Like a drum, it's frantic first and races against itself just to make a sound and be heard, but calms and finally becomes strong.

Thump.

Thump.

Thump.

Thump.

Our hands are reaching in the dark. Fingers stretching outwards, hoping for that first innocent brush. Then interlock and anchor one to another. Pull them close, hold them tightly, each wrapped inside another. Palms meet and retract slightly, hiding nervous sweat and blushing cheeks. Only for a moment, then tightly grasped and sealed. Two hands, two arms, two hearts thumping, struggling to keep warm; a rhythm drumming in the dark.


I couldn't say it with words. My tongue is far too clumsy.

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