Like the paint stain on my car seat upholstery, Or that can of tomato soup on the bottom shelf of our pantry, Or the thinning comfort of an old and favorite t-shirt, It’s been with me long enough to be a part of me.
Not that I take IT for granted.
It means never being homeless, Always someone to tell your stories to, Skin you know as well as your own, And a heart too.
There are probably ten thousand True Loves of mine, Who will never know who I am. And ten thousand messages in bottles Might not reach a one of them.
Were I not paired and were I to roam, I might find a few, Lose a few, Settle with another, Be content, Or be torn like Orpheus, Into musical shreds in a bacchic orgy.
So I come Home every day, Open Love like a favorite novel, The one that sings to you When every other lets you down, Open to any page and start reading, Drawn into the story Each and every time, Finding something new, Something familiar, Something comforting and truthful. Finding passion all over again.
Like the paint stain on my car seat upholstery,
Or that can of tomato soup on the bottom shelf of our pantry,
Or the thinning comfort of an old and favorite t-shirt,
It’s been with me long enough to be a part of me.
Not that I take IT for granted.
It means never being homeless,
Always someone to tell your stories to,
Skin you know as well as your own,
And a heart too.
There are probably ten thousand True Loves of mine,
Who will never know who I am.
And ten thousand messages in bottles
Might not reach a one of them.
Were I not paired and were I to roam,
I might find a few,
Lose a few,
Settle with another,
Be content,
Or be torn like Orpheus,
Into musical shreds in a bacchic orgy.
So I come Home every day,
Open Love like a favorite novel,
The one that sings to you
When every other lets you down,
Open to any page and start reading,
Drawn into the story
Each and every time,
Finding something new,
Something familiar,
Something comforting and truthful.
Finding passion all over again.
It’s a damned fine story.
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