.
Me and everything I am needs a wash,
Saying too much already just by being here,
I should know better.
Your story is,
Postcards,
Unfettered larking rolls down from our sky,
One lit glowing green cloud after another,
Orange going red waters,
Birds gliding overhead hungrily,
Mad at slowly losing their star.
And my story is,
Laundry,
Here with day’s worth of my own dirt,
It all strobed into my eyes,
While trying to blink out the grime,
Flakes of skin,
Stray hairs,
Band aids that don’t stick.
This is all for your benefit.
It has a start, middle,
And definitely an end I’m trying to reach,
But this won’t mean anything,
None of it will,
Unless I break through these words,
And start saying something.
So our story is…
Suspects,
Seeing as I had sand in my ears,
A tongue that can twist all sorts of ways,
And seeing as you could smell everything on me,
From my first thoughts on down,
Through every cent spent,
Trying to get the map back here,
To some point.
I have something to show,
You.
It is one time, but not upon it,
In only one place, which is every place,
It has double-meanings, but it won’t be ambiguous,
It’s all begins there in the firm soft glide,
Of your finger across my palm,
In the guarded face that is put on this,
Over the top,
For safety’s own sake,
Assumed innocence,
Allowances once made that aren't adult enough,
Like we're too old now,
To listen to another bed-time story.
Like happily ever after winking its post modern,
Blurred-focus-high-contrast-all-knowing-mumble of ‘as if’,
While you nod along quiet,
Sporting your own grin,
Prepared earlier,
While inside you nothing can lie or be lied to,
And it’s really kinda dying right now as another disappointment,
Spilled its way into your story.
As for me,
I love stories of all and any kind,
Even though I’m tired of telling mine,
I’d just like to be able to say it one last time,
Make that it then I could put it to rest,
But I know now that this will never happen,
So I’ll keep telling it in parts,
Until… the end.
I know how you like happy endings,
And less the up-down ironic conclusions,
But that is where my story started,
And where it always goes,
It’s why I’m still here,
And will stick around to make sure you don’t miss it.
So this story won’t ever have a happy ending,
But you’re old enough now to realise,
That the best stories never do.
_____________________________________________
-Peace
.
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