I’ll play the fool once. I’ll be your puppet on a string. You have girls just lining up to dance and here I thought it was a solo act.
I can only hope that in some small way
I helped you. Then my pain in walking away
would not have been in vain. I wish
I hadn’t played the fool.
But maybe I had to.
How twisted is that reasoning,
that when someone likes another more
they must break stride and walk away.
I’ll never understand these love games people play.
Photocred: creative commons
There was dust on the table
and dust on her heart.
She was an antique in the making,
a glass figurine in a working man’s world.
photocred: creative commons
He was a man taught by the ways of the world: A natural at understanding mechanical motions, a hard working man that the stars never managed to align for. But he never did show any strain from the burden he carried, he was strong – invincible maybe. The friends he possessed were few but loyal, a thing of the by gone days. His father before him was much of the same in the way the stars never aligned on the right day. It must be a hereditary thing, and I to shall constantly fight my fate.
Blinded by the north wind that pulls tears to slide down your cheeks
To stubborn to see through the watery images
Of what I could not have,
To see you before me.
Instead, I called you Winter.
When actually it was my heart that was cold.
The open road was calling her to cut those two headlights through the starless dark and barrel headlong into an unending abyss they call Kansas. She couldn’t sit still in this one room shack with the road calling her back; it was an old lover she couldn’t quit.
Label her a fool, but her dreams were fading in that Oklahoma town. They became more fragile every day the sun set without her chasing it down.
It was the only way she felt alive; when she was running fast down some old road toward an unseen thing they all called a reckless dream. Oh, how could she even think of living any other way?
I wish we had never met:
Never known the sound of your voice,
The way you smile,
The taste of your lips,
The way you scare the hell out of me when you drive.
I wish you had never stole my heart.
I was defenseless.
I couldn’t play your game.
And games were all you played.
So I pretend we never met.
It’s the only defense I have left.
Photo cred: Creative Commons
It’s evening in a crowded coffee shop – different languages hang in the air – accents to thick for my mind to understand. The milk foam in my cup swirls together with the coffee, and somehow I’m thinking of you. Did you fight for me my darling?
I didn’t hear my name whispered with the last breath on love’s cold lips. And now love is dead. There’s no reviving it: It would be no different than trying to warm the coffee that’s now gone cold. So why do I still think of you?
Photo Cred: Creative Commons
Sweet summer dreams in the middle of a hard freeze it couldn’t paint the sky more gold. Like the gold of her poly as it swung to the rhythm of a big bays stride. He swallowed up the ground miles at a time.
Photo Cred: TL
It was like the unfolding of a map, archaic and old, sending dust to glitter in the sunbeams. She hadn’t opened it up and looked upon the labyrinth of roads in a long time. Because no one used maps anymore: they remain folded up still perfectly new never knowing the touch of another’s hand. Even so she liked her tattered, well-used one, with all the rips along the creases from unfolding and folding back again. The marks of dirt and coffee coincided with past destinations circled in marker or pencil, maybe lipstick if it had been the only thing handy. Hers’ was flawed, in that it was missing many newly built roads and ramps. But she didn’t need another. Everything she ever needed was right there in the lines of that map disguised as her heart.