Her face

How I wish, how I wish you were here
                                              ------- Pink Floyd
 
Lately my mind don't feel like mine.

There is a photograph in my shirt pocket that I don't recognize. I have taken it out and looked at it many times through the evening but I cannot recall who she is. It is a black and white photograph, not faded though it is a bit tattered. Whoever she is, her smile is radiant and her eyes open and inviting. Just as for the camera, it is hard for me to focus on anything but her face. 

When I have seen the face for long enough that I can reproduce it in my mind, I go out across the beach to stand at the water's edge. It is night and in the cold of the rain the water is indigo dark with the churn of the quiet waves an ominous frothy charcoal blue. There is a shadow on the murky horizon despite the ascendant moon.

I have been in this night before. I have been.

I pat my shirt pocket and the photograph is still there.

With my feet on the liquid sand, there is nothing to hold on to. So I close my eyes, imagine her face and let the cold steel rain wash over me.

Flowers for your birthday

Written while listening to Aurora Aksnes cover a beautiful Leonard Cohen Song

It is four in the morning, late in November.
I sit at the desk by the window of our bedroom.
In the darkness, all I can think about
is that I cannot send you flowers for your birthday.

From the window, I can see the silver of the waves
crashing across the quiet beach. It is raining outside.
The song I have been playing in the background is stuck in an everlasting loop.
I like the song, but it makes me sad.

If you ever come back here
for my words, or for me
what new can I possibly say to you?
Shall I tell you that I have always loved you?

Shall I tell you that in my mind
I see you dancing with me on our beach?
It is late in November, it is late at night,
and I cannot send you flowers for your birthday.

Tell you

I am going to tell you.

I am going to tell you how I feel.

I am going to talk to you through the night. In my arms, on our beach, as you lay with me in our hammock just out of reach of the waves, I will let go of whatever it is inside me that has kept me from telling you all these years. There, under the moon and the stars, I am going to tell you how I feel.

I am going to brush your dark hair back from your face and trace your lips with my fingers. I will lean forward to kiss your lips and down your neck, as I have done so many a time. Your hands in mine, I will hold you close to calm your trembling heart. There, in the light of your smile, I am going to tell you how I feel.

I am going to take you back in time to our first dance floor. Surrounded by the warmth of the torches, among the crowds we will dance again, alone alongside the silent strangers. Your warmth against mine, your body moves in response to mine. There, to the rhythm of my beating heart, I am going tell you how I feel.

I am going to tell you how I feel.

I am going to tell you.

Not as it would seem

From across the piazza, light from the nightclub spills out onto the cobblestone courtyard through the big glass window that wraps around their bar. It is a familiar place, but it is late in the evening and I need to get home to you.

As I turn away to keep walking, I notice the woman sitting on a bar stool at the long thin table pressed against the window, summer dress to her knees, bare legs with sensible black shoes swinging to some internal rhythm. There you are, drinking wine and reading. I cannot help but smile at the incongruity of you reading in a club with all the music and dancing behind you.

As I stop and watch you, you are absorbed in the book, your raven hair loose and covering the left side of your face, the hint of a smile on your lips. From the distance I can not tell what you are reading. Your neck adorned with a silver chain, the top couple of buttons of your dress are open and as you lean into the book, there is just a hint of the curves I know so well.

You smile, turn the page, and take a sip from the wine glass. 

It is late, and I need to get home to you.

Parched

Night falls without sound. 
In the thin rain, parched memories (of you)
dig deeper into my mind for sustenance.

Flickering neurons, and my eyes
create holograms of you from
the glitter of moonlight on rain.

Your hand in mine, memory's children beckon
and in the thin rain we walk deeper into
this ancient game of mind versus matter,

Night falls without sound.
In the thin rain, I think about standing
my ground. You hold my mind.