The answer can be found
on page two hundred and ten.
You see, I said, I think
this is the problem with men
We’ve got it all down
somewhere in a book
but nobody knows in which one
we should look.
Out there is right; out there in the middle, the middle of nowhere; where you wake up and feel the need to make yellow snow and you write your name as only schoolboys can; and you find that missing page and you bring it to her and she feels all over again what had begun years before in the rain.
The book of me, the book of you
pages missing, blacked out and blue
scattered to the center
we find out what’s true
a peed on piece of paper
I just barely knew.
You hand it to me, I’ll take it from you
that feeling of rain
that wets and renews.
You’ll take my hand,
and the paper I threw,
sweetly place it back in my book
as only the schoolboys do.
it’s hard to reply, I am self conscience now; I write better when i don’t think
I feel a little sheepish. I was going to say, “Like,” then read the comment above. A Charlie Brown moment.
like is a positive moment, with brevity and bliss. Thank you.
hello Sara; I don’t think i have made your acquaintance
I, on the other hand, was going to write, “at least you’re invested in looking for the problem, unlike others of us who are beyond caring.” But then, I too read the beautiful interchange above, and wondered if I couldn’t have a little more compassion.
Beyond caring. That deserves some contemplation, I’ve wished for it, yet lived it too. I am not sure what’s worse.
The problem of recording anything is attempting to find it again.
Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:
You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. ( Log Out / Change )
You are commenting using your Twitter account. ( Log Out / Change )
You are commenting using your Facebook account. ( Log Out / Change )
You are commenting using your Google+ account. ( Log Out / Change )
Connecting to %s
Notify me of new comments via email.
Notify me of new posts via email.