Old and New

At first there was the one.
The one that took many forms and many names
but nevertheless it was the one.
It belonged to the girl I fell in love with.
The book slut.
Someone once called her 'clueless'.
Someone once hurt her hard and deep,
that caused her to become guarded
with a thick armor that doubled up as a blanket.

I fell in love with her writing before I fell in love with her.

At first...the words were...indecipherable.
But then it grew on me.
Like a morning sunlight that paves its way across the front porch
through the windows through the living room
into my bedroom into my body.
I was penetrated
I was hooked.

Your poems, said I, should be made into songs.
Then she flirted with the band leader
And I made up my mind never to let her near bands again.

I was privileged, sometimes the only one
Always there, a read away.
Here the story came to life.
Here the first days were started.

And then the new one came.
I didn't really understand the reasoning behind the change
Or the makeover
What change?
I knew not then what I know now
If I ever to change what would I become
What is I? as they say in Jeopardy.
I am beyond time, beyond the flame of change.
The flame that lights out fading darkness and burns off in fading light.
I am beyond that
I am below the layers
And the layers of the onion are peeled away
one by one, two by two
three by three.

But here we were with a pretty picture of gazing eyes
where there was more than silence
and foolish?
And nomorefollowers
and windsfate
There was more, much more
There were stories, they were characters
Saira and Lily and the wife of a liar
Words in a place
belonging to a girl I am in love with.

I want to be her everything
Her good night kiss, her good morning smile.
I want to be all her phone calls during job tea breaks and whilst sipping whiskey
I want to be there for her, cause that's what am here for.
The long run..

That's right
You and me and the long run with our dreams and our hopes
Me with my idealism
You with your practical-ism.

My image of her is of her reading
But I have other images coming my way
Her writing her stories,
Her and I in Spain
Her as a mother.
We live in a world where we are junkies
Looking forward to the next thing
We are not here we are not now
At least not yet.

And now, I am denied this space
I live with the old one and its solace.
Misery loves company
If I am misery it becomes my company
If 'it' was about misery then I became the company
But in the words of S. Williams
'Somehow I can't stop thinking
Thinking
All the time thinking
What is she thinking?'
And...
What is she writing?