I don't always have it.
But when I do, it often makes me weep.
It often let's me sleep.
Dropping flashes of the underbelly nights,
I call upon an un~level hill
I am sweaty and disappointed in the
last poisoned cranberry soaked restless dark.
Habitual decompression of polar characters
and yet, the frost is favored as my skin is often so hot,
and my pulse, I feel it in my chest and head like that bongo
That one night, drumming out Sublime and Ben Harper songs?
You remember, don't you?
In that house, with those friends, bottles and instruments,
laughter and curse words?
and you, your eyes, so blue. I lost the rhythm when I saw them.
Caught in a web of earthly driven days and nights,
smelling fires and charcoal
feeling pumpkins and wine goblets that fit so perfectly in my hand.
That's the one, that'll be my cup.
We have a bond, one I love and hate.
But those cool desert nights
That mountain glazed in purple & green, and stubborn July white tops.
It feels like magic!
Until it doesn't.
Until admission and guilt step up like a
caged beast, and you cant help wondering
How have I not heard you? How have I not nourished you? You are me and I am you.
And those free falling and endless nights have long been gone.
And those fires are in the stove warming my home for my children
And, those pumpkins are carved by delicate hands
And, those bongos are in the basement collecting dust
But the music still plays in the air
and you, your eyes, so blue...help me see my truths.