Shadows breathe. Trees creak and there is no light... not hopeless but rather worn, or perhaps the word "bleak" might better describe this absence.
And though I have many friends, wild times and hard moments. My shadow is deep. Albie is my best friend, true in a fight, but he lacks that certain something, that certain confidence. Albie's my best friend and he's a cuckold
What I do have is memory and pain; a dream of the only woman I can remember, remember in sound.
I remember her laugh. I remember her invisibility; her dark wit. I remember the way we loved and the secret stolen moments behind Albie's back.
She loved me. She loved the fact that I never needed her to verify my existence. She loved the fact that I could care less what others thought (unlike Albie).
We were going to leave this dustbowl, leave everything behind... right after she told Albie. For his sake I waited. You see, he's my best friend.
...
I was waiting for her to come that Tuesday. She never did.
Time passed.
I went a knocking. Drapes drawn, no one home. Nothing but silence and October wind.
...
November
November brings the damp wind and crackling boughs. Sheltered in the dances, cossetted in the beer. Moments creep, sadness festers.
Nothing is more filling than moments of loss.
Across the hall on the folding clap board table sits my best friend. Bent and drunk. Blistered fists and clothes a wreck.
"Long time Albie."
His heaviness hangs like my own but more sour.
I can't wait (where is she?).
I can't wait, I vomit rage.
"Where is she?"
Weak and tear-eyed, my friend is, barely able to look up.
Again I ask "have you seen her?"
Shock registers with "Who? Her? You know? Her?". Followed by tale-end sputters of "you know, you know... but"
Love is rage; Bear and dog. This limp rag is nothing in my grasp.
"Where is she?"
...and remorse cracked...
"Choked, killed her, I could not... I can't... mumblings of "buried her... she's dead"
...
Sometimes, I remember her laugh, her smell, her lust. Sometimes I remember her but mostly I wait... it's only a matter of time.
And though I have many friends, wild times and hard moments. My shadow is deep. Albie is my best friend, true in a fight, but he lacks that certain something, that certain confidence. Albie's my best friend and he's a cuckold
What I do have is memory and pain; a dream of the only woman I can remember, remember in sound.
I remember her laugh. I remember her invisibility; her dark wit. I remember the way we loved and the secret stolen moments behind Albie's back.
She loved me. She loved the fact that I never needed her to verify my existence. She loved the fact that I could care less what others thought (unlike Albie).
We were going to leave this dustbowl, leave everything behind... right after she told Albie. For his sake I waited. You see, he's my best friend.
...
I was waiting for her to come that Tuesday. She never did.
Time passed.
I went a knocking. Drapes drawn, no one home. Nothing but silence and October wind.
...
November
November brings the damp wind and crackling boughs. Sheltered in the dances, cossetted in the beer. Moments creep, sadness festers.
Nothing is more filling than moments of loss.
Across the hall on the folding clap board table sits my best friend. Bent and drunk. Blistered fists and clothes a wreck.
"Long time Albie."
His heaviness hangs like my own but more sour.
I can't wait (where is she?).
I can't wait, I vomit rage.
"Where is she?"
Weak and tear-eyed, my friend is, barely able to look up.
Again I ask "have you seen her?"
Shock registers with "Who? Her? You know? Her?". Followed by tale-end sputters of "you know, you know... but"
Love is rage; Bear and dog. This limp rag is nothing in my grasp.
"Where is she?"
...and remorse cracked...
"Choked, killed her, I could not... I can't... mumblings of "buried her... she's dead"
...
Sometimes, I remember her laugh, her smell, her lust. Sometimes I remember her but mostly I wait... it's only a matter of time.