Je N'en Connais Pas La Fin...
"my blood approves,
and kisses are a better fate
than wisdom" --E.E. Cummings
And so I guess the beginning is as good a place as any to start this... the problem has always been I get them all mixed up. Where it starts, where it unraveled, and finally where it finds it's resting place (if it ever finds it's resting place). I don't know how to say this, language falls silent when it comes to feelings. And so we dive, jump head first into the murky pool of what we know to be nothing.
I wanted to pull you into me and tell you some things are unavoidable. That it's not intentional, see I've never been described as rational. But these things always seem to take shape at the oddest of times and lips do far better speaking than I ever could. In eyes there is a silence you can almost touch, sometimes I can still feel it on me. I guess that's just the person I am, or have become, jaded but passionate. Which, I suppose leads me back to my irrationality. I'm the kind of girl that throws vases when I fight. Like unlocking flood gates, I let everything come crashing out, and many things wind up broken. It was during one of those moments I fell in love. I mean, really in love. I remember it well, I threw a crystal vase with fresh lilies. It sent shards of glass and water everywhere. He stood silent as I tried to catch my breath. It's always like that, the old 20's movies. He was debonaire and he pinned my arms above my head and kissed me with such reckless passion that I couldn't catch my breath for years to come. He was the one who said we fight too much. That these moods and swinging hips were too much to handle. I had my wings outstretched since the day he met me, only now he was realizing just how easily I took to flight. I'm not heartbroken, or at least I've grown too calloused to care. When he left I buried my heart in every pair of lips I could touch. There's a thousand different me's. I moved here to collect them, and now I'm just leaving another one far behind. If you like her, you can take her home, I'm done trying to cage myself. It'll be 14 hours of driving for the inevitable let down of what life becomes.
I don't want to be trapped in someone elses vision.
But these are all beginnings to stories, the ones we'll tell or read, only to re-tell and re-read over again. The words don't change, but we always will. And so we come away with a new found respect for written word or spoken tall-tales. Sometimes I catch myself still believing in things I thought I had given up on. Or swore in vain to never repeat to another. Things happening for a greater purpose, it takes control out of my hands and into the wind. With the weather always changing, it makes me nervous. I suppose. You make me nervous. I get worried there is no choice, there is no trying. Give up. Make no decision. Things will inevitably lead down the same road. Is there a right and a wrong decision, is it even ours to make?
But I'm here now. Empty apartment with too much left to do. But I'm here now. I am here. When I'm gone from these 4 rooms. When I've left your rooms. When this town becomes a rearview mirror picture projected on my old eyes. What will there be to say I ever existed at all? Hair on pillowcases that don't belong to me. The faint remembering of an echo of heels on hardwood floors. Too many dirty drunken nights catching ourselves with open lips. We never fell. Or, I never let myself fall. Now would be a good time for an apology, but I've never been one for that. I think you'll always know how I feel. You'll probably forget it. Like memories we can't hold on to anymore. The cardboard box of letters and photographs I move from place to place but never unpack.
Maybe I need to be more courageous.
Too much of nothing. Maybe these are our dying days. I listen to stories of cancer, sometimes I can retell my own. But I'd rather here a voice, heavy with reverberation. Tales of women who can't resist a good fuck. Of boys you can't help but fall in love with. How there is life at every turn of the road, and chances we sometimes hesitate to take. They get swallowed up by oceans of impossibilities. But sometimes we take them, form last chances into something spectacular. Those are the impossibilities, the ones that stay with us. Sometimes they get taken by the oceans beckoning, but always return to us when we're closest to forgetting. I can close my eyes and still hear the world like the first time you said it. Sometimes when the light hits just right I can read all the words ever written on your body. On my body. On anyone’s body. Because hands have become branding irons. Nails become indelible pen with the lightest of pressure. Sometimes fingers become our eyes and they read every word, every sentence ever engraved on taught skin. I wanted to translate your own words to you. But time is fleeing from us both. So I just keep quiet and read you to myself while sleep finds us in our separate worlds. I'm safest there, I think we all are.
I used to sing to myself when I would wake up. Sing my way through the day. Even now, in the midst of my uncouth lifestyle I can still catch myself humming this once beautiful french refrain:
'Ah, mon amour
A toi toujours
Dans tes grands yeux
Rien que nous deux'
and kisses are a better fate
than wisdom" --E.E. Cummings
And so I guess the beginning is as good a place as any to start this... the problem has always been I get them all mixed up. Where it starts, where it unraveled, and finally where it finds it's resting place (if it ever finds it's resting place). I don't know how to say this, language falls silent when it comes to feelings. And so we dive, jump head first into the murky pool of what we know to be nothing.
I wanted to pull you into me and tell you some things are unavoidable. That it's not intentional, see I've never been described as rational. But these things always seem to take shape at the oddest of times and lips do far better speaking than I ever could. In eyes there is a silence you can almost touch, sometimes I can still feel it on me. I guess that's just the person I am, or have become, jaded but passionate. Which, I suppose leads me back to my irrationality. I'm the kind of girl that throws vases when I fight. Like unlocking flood gates, I let everything come crashing out, and many things wind up broken. It was during one of those moments I fell in love. I mean, really in love. I remember it well, I threw a crystal vase with fresh lilies. It sent shards of glass and water everywhere. He stood silent as I tried to catch my breath. It's always like that, the old 20's movies. He was debonaire and he pinned my arms above my head and kissed me with such reckless passion that I couldn't catch my breath for years to come. He was the one who said we fight too much. That these moods and swinging hips were too much to handle. I had my wings outstretched since the day he met me, only now he was realizing just how easily I took to flight. I'm not heartbroken, or at least I've grown too calloused to care. When he left I buried my heart in every pair of lips I could touch. There's a thousand different me's. I moved here to collect them, and now I'm just leaving another one far behind. If you like her, you can take her home, I'm done trying to cage myself. It'll be 14 hours of driving for the inevitable let down of what life becomes.
I don't want to be trapped in someone elses vision.
But these are all beginnings to stories, the ones we'll tell or read, only to re-tell and re-read over again. The words don't change, but we always will. And so we come away with a new found respect for written word or spoken tall-tales. Sometimes I catch myself still believing in things I thought I had given up on. Or swore in vain to never repeat to another. Things happening for a greater purpose, it takes control out of my hands and into the wind. With the weather always changing, it makes me nervous. I suppose. You make me nervous. I get worried there is no choice, there is no trying. Give up. Make no decision. Things will inevitably lead down the same road. Is there a right and a wrong decision, is it even ours to make?
But I'm here now. Empty apartment with too much left to do. But I'm here now. I am here. When I'm gone from these 4 rooms. When I've left your rooms. When this town becomes a rearview mirror picture projected on my old eyes. What will there be to say I ever existed at all? Hair on pillowcases that don't belong to me. The faint remembering of an echo of heels on hardwood floors. Too many dirty drunken nights catching ourselves with open lips. We never fell. Or, I never let myself fall. Now would be a good time for an apology, but I've never been one for that. I think you'll always know how I feel. You'll probably forget it. Like memories we can't hold on to anymore. The cardboard box of letters and photographs I move from place to place but never unpack.
Maybe I need to be more courageous.
Too much of nothing. Maybe these are our dying days. I listen to stories of cancer, sometimes I can retell my own. But I'd rather here a voice, heavy with reverberation. Tales of women who can't resist a good fuck. Of boys you can't help but fall in love with. How there is life at every turn of the road, and chances we sometimes hesitate to take. They get swallowed up by oceans of impossibilities. But sometimes we take them, form last chances into something spectacular. Those are the impossibilities, the ones that stay with us. Sometimes they get taken by the oceans beckoning, but always return to us when we're closest to forgetting. I can close my eyes and still hear the world like the first time you said it. Sometimes when the light hits just right I can read all the words ever written on your body. On my body. On anyone’s body. Because hands have become branding irons. Nails become indelible pen with the lightest of pressure. Sometimes fingers become our eyes and they read every word, every sentence ever engraved on taught skin. I wanted to translate your own words to you. But time is fleeing from us both. So I just keep quiet and read you to myself while sleep finds us in our separate worlds. I'm safest there, I think we all are.
I used to sing to myself when I would wake up. Sing my way through the day. Even now, in the midst of my uncouth lifestyle I can still catch myself humming this once beautiful french refrain:
'Ah, mon amour
A toi toujours
Dans tes grands yeux
Rien que nous deux'