“Every word I have written has been for you.”
“Every fourth line.”
“Every word is yours actually, for there has been no others that I have given such words to.”
“I’ll be honest, I’m crying sir. Distance or miles cannot change love.”
Or I may be mis-quoting her. I doubt it.
I’ll say these things first. Then you can scroll down, you the reader whoever you may be. But think of this for me; that I love everyone this way. Every great, beautiful woman, and it is just fine.
You have to trust me.
We make the world sick of beauty.
But.
I think I’m done with this one.
She has values of a friend now. I’ll never stop this urgency, but another will.
I left a message.
Called two numbers.
I’m done waiting on her sweet comments.
On her to decide she is slowed down enough, or on the road long enough to talk.
Her loss.
This is the tribute words. Maybe you’ve read them before.
::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::Sempre:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
This is me.
Twice set upon a thing, eyes devoid of a truth, still wondering of the meanings behind all words.
And they haven’t been in riddles, just let go of.
The grains so small they are slipping through your hands.
I imagine that is what is of all your grains and why all life is as a grain to you.
I sit here next to the fireplace, knowing that your eyes have not seen new words for some time and feeling that you have stopped searching.
You remember when you would play that violin, a series of master works. Then half way through an overture you would stop, maybe you felt pointless, that your unseen audience had left, maybe you thought it was all short lived anyway.
But you stopped.
Has your music become as all things?
And us in great poetry form, true to all, have you been true to thine own self?
If I told you that she woke me, that while I lay sleeping she came and told me to listen and as I did all I could hear were as the trees being blown hard and the great timber quaking in a stretch that groaned as some creaking of stressed wood.
And this noise would not stop and was loud to the point I
ask it to.
But she stayed.
Your soul, and she told me that I was hearing the
sound of your heart.
She told me it would stop if I would wake and write it down. So I did. On a piece of paper next to me with a fine point sharpie laying near by. And I tried to text you and let know, it was in a reply to you telling me that
“she does him good all the days of his life” and I said I had to at least tell you I had a dream.
So it’s Sunday.
Did you search for God today? Did you decide that playing Him as a fool was no good?
I am no judge. God is a forgiving God.
Today, a new woman played the piano, a young cute girl and I wished her to be you so I could have been so interactive with you on such a day.
But more so as I would have seen you there with me.
Some have told me to let you go. Simply because my demeanor shows through as I worry for you.
You my little Sunday School teacher, I don’t know Bekki, something has to happen.
I’m not letting you go.
But you have to do something and if your words have been real through years and you are not but just an author, well you should know of an obligation to words.
Someone tried to talk to me of getting crumbs in bed and they said they wouldn’t mind and they would go get me crackers to eat in bed.
I told them that they were being silly, that I was taken.
They ask me sarcastically, “are you?”
I am.
