I wouldn’t know how to describe a painting or a sonata, but I can tell someone my feelings. Though people rarely know the meanings behind them. . .
Words fail me often, but nobody notices. They don’t seem to listen anyway. One person knows me. When I talk to her, my words are knives in a drawer,they have power. The possible damages of them could be horrific. .
. . . or so she implies.
She and I are like a house which fell apart–currently undergoing some careful remodeling. The mailbox is like the similarities in ourpast. . .
. . there isn’t one. Religion is the sidewalk. .
. . cracked and broken almost tothe point of confusion whether there was a sidewalk there or not. . .
. . but newconcrete is now being poured. Holes and cracks being filled in the wallsare like patching with “devotion/love-putty” in every argument in our future. A roofwhich has caved in.
To most this would be formidable, but to her, a peacefulnight underthe stars! I love her attitude. Her thoughts sleep. . . .
while I stay up with the moon trying to exercise the demons in my mind. She is too intelligent, too spiritual for her own peace. A shaman, stuck in time. I’m a regular “Joe,” with no spiritualthoughts, just facts. . .
. . . facts that make me wonder why she loves me.
She, a strokeof genius and a slap in the face to the world. I’m a stroke of nothing andusuallythat world. I’m always restless, searching for my answers. Although beautysleep is not what she needs, she always seems to get it.
Stories about morals andreligion slip from her mouth, while comical stories come from mine. Shelaughs. Probably to make me feel humorous. I love her generosity.
Some things I say are like sour notes played too often. I’m out of tune, but she always sings along. Our “relationship waltz” is better thanmost. Weknow our own steps by heart. She sometimes makes me nervous, still.
Her dreams are bigger than both of us. When she speaks about them her wordsflow so smoothly. My words fall from my lips clumsily. They aren’t enough toexplainwho I want to be for her. I am so flawed sometimes and she is sure let meknow it.
. . . . “I’m going to Bobby’s hose.
“”Hose?? Bobby’s hose? I think you are looking for the word–house. “She knew what I was saying, but she chooses to make a point. I love herhumor. Our days together have roots that go deep.
They go to the center of the earth and back and wrap around memories that will never languish. Images of her burn into my mind. . .
. . she’s carefully trying to balance me on the tip of her finger, but she is too precarious and I always fall. Ilaugh when looking up, although saddened by her uncertainty. I love herhonesty.
I preach terrible love speeches to her all of the time. . . but I’m strongerwith a pen in my hand. My mind spins with thoughts that are like rain, I can’t catch them all. I wish I could, but I feel a drought coming.
I’llweed through the mess later. Right now I have plenty buckets to fill. Ourroof is leaking, and somehow. . .
some way we will easily find it refreshing. I love her.
