... A catalogue of dreams. I used to lay awake and whisper them toward his sleep. I fancied that I might be able to insinuate myself into his; his dreams - just a flash of my face or a brief background appearance. Enough to make an impact; leave an impression. He'd wake up thinking of me; maybe not even sure why. He'd wake hungry.
This need not make sense. It just needs to be true. Water and fire die in the same way. My words are wet coal. My story is of wanting; of waiting in his old anger. In his unresolved hate, I dispersed. A harsh word, but we won't shy away from it, ok? It made me evaporate. Or, was it love? Lust? How to say? Passion runs them all together; leaving little to examine as evidence. Even then, it's up for interpretation - versions - passionate improv; a night on the stage. A slideshow. And i'm the screen. What's showing? Sit back. Watch: a swamp and at its center, a long wick. A stream and look closer, its bed is leather. A girl dancing barefoot in an alley filled with broken glass; she's eloquent in her form - spinning amidst all that glinting. It's lovely. We don't even think to worry about her feet. Time lapse to her thirty years later. She's still there. But much older. It's just not the same.
Ever walk down a street in late May and catch a wiff and catch
your breath and stop? Retrace your steps for that scent.
You know it's rolling off boughs
full of blossoms; lilac or apple maybe but
when you go back looking
it's just not as sweet as that first
off-guard overthrow that took you over
for a moment - a lovely loss of self
control yes and I've done that with music -
there's a melody. A line of tones
I heard once - a song and have since
been looking. It resists retrieval. It's
lost in resounding shadow. A melody
I heard that doubled the fire
in me, set me back flaming
swamp stagnant water morphed lively and set
to a new pace from medium to slow to gone again
- the balance; the length. And so I've searched.
It's hard though, to ask after music,
I can barely hum the bars but I'd know
if I heard it. You know?
Or maybe I'm not talking about music at all. I search for
a face, for a certain skin-scent, for a place where I felt at home but have never been. It wasn't in a dream. I search for something but stay right here. I'll just light another candle and fill another stack of pages with words. Some things are best left alone or undone. I may still see them through to completion, but then, I'll throw them away. This letter. Perhaps it's a letter. Perhaps it's to you. Perhaps it's a love letter, of sorts ... it would want deciphering ... it would demand patience. And desire.
The candle is tilted. It won't stand up straight and the wax is hot. Too fast. It burns bent and rushing loose as an unguided monologue - like a baglady singing in a back alley. No one listens. It just happens that some of what she says is beautiful; there's genius to her madness. Maybe she's my muse. On bad days, I wonder if she's my future - or my alter ego. Nice men in grey suits have the decency to turn into caped super heroes in phone booths. - Me? I gather fleas and a shopping cart full of junk. I do it over time. My bags sport lots of candles and other people's old snapshots. But most noteably, random pages lost from letters. Words unaccounted for - My heroism; I'd deliver them to the rightful hands; whoever the "reader intended" was, that never read. I'd change lives - that would be my super power. That missing page from a life where she gets brave enough to tell him that when he's near her she feels so ... or the paragraph that pleads or amends or invites. I'd uncrumple them; tease back the wrinkles and tears as best I could. You'd be surprised at how many unsent, unfinished letters there are. And the weight of them. The sheer weight. You'd be astonished.
Set at angle. a crooked burning candle tired of its own heat mimicking the cold blue sky at the eye of its flame - watching. Next time a madwoman stands in your alley holding a light and sing-songing, you might pause a moment before slamming shut your window. You might notice something in her words. She is looking for something but it's something you need. The scent of lilacs.
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