If I could...
The nights are long and quiet here. Fishkill was quiet, but this is quiet, and on this night... He doesn't quite fancy the bar's social atmosphere, but seats himself at its edges, on the stairs that lead up to the rooms. There he watches, and writes.
Maybe he sees a face out there in the evening sea of faces.
Maybe he recalls a recent conversation, or...
...maybe he remembers someone from home.
Maybe all three.
Maybe none, but the silent longing and selfish want that is a heart free to love here what was forbidden there, and grateful enough to pen some silly verses.
If I could hold you
the way I meant to,
If I could whisper
one last word,
I'd send a cuckoo
to be your angel,
I'd pluck his feathers
and be your bird.
If I could lay my
head in your lap,
If I could lap up
all your tears,
I'd be too full for
all the oceans,
I'd be too old for
all the years
Since summer gave me
sun to sing to,
Since winter gave me
snow to sleep,
If I could have just
one part of you,
I'd choose your hands
as mine to keep.
And these hands were
once our own,
And these fingers
were our strings,
And what gave us
heaven's music
Gave to Daedalus
his wings.
He underscores the line about wings. He sits a while longer and idly doodles birds upon the back of the paper he had written on.
It's not just paper. It's a blank inside cover page for a book.
The Invention of Love by Tom Stoppard.
Fitting.
He closes the book
and looks at the title
and smiles, and signs it "1066," and leaves it where it sits, as he returns up to his room.
Maybe he sees a face out there in the evening sea of faces.
Maybe he recalls a recent conversation, or...
...maybe he remembers someone from home.
Maybe all three.
Maybe none, but the silent longing and selfish want that is a heart free to love here what was forbidden there, and grateful enough to pen some silly verses.
If I could hold you
the way I meant to,
If I could whisper
one last word,
I'd send a cuckoo
to be your angel,
I'd pluck his feathers
and be your bird.
If I could lay my
head in your lap,
If I could lap up
all your tears,
I'd be too full for
all the oceans,
I'd be too old for
all the years
Since summer gave me
sun to sing to,
Since winter gave me
snow to sleep,
If I could have just
one part of you,
I'd choose your hands
as mine to keep.
And these hands were
once our own,
And these fingers
were our strings,
And what gave us
heaven's music
Gave to Daedalus
his wings.
He underscores the line about wings. He sits a while longer and idly doodles birds upon the back of the paper he had written on.
It's not just paper. It's a blank inside cover page for a book.
The Invention of Love by Tom Stoppard.
Fitting.
He closes the book
and looks at the title
and smiles, and signs it "1066," and leaves it where it sits, as he returns up to his room.