There’s a start,
There has to be, and an ending
To every story.
And the space before knowing what to say
And if it’s dangerous to talk to strangers,
How will we all fit
Inside the spine of it?
The paperback pile holds a history
With careful words and corners curled
All grey and gold and yellowing
He said “Where’d you learn to sing?”
“I guess I got it from my mother.
She always had a thing for symphonies
And complimentary colours.” She replied.
“It’s such a shame that we don’t know each other.
But don’t forget that we met in the worst way.”
Then she let go
And he tore through another city with the lights down low
No regrets.
It’s just the faces that are hardest to explain
And to perfect.
Too many numbers to dial and to remember
In sequence, all together
And the weight of who they mean.
She said “I don’t know how to dance
Because I never had the shoes
Or the connection to the one
With patience and cues.
But don’t forget that we met in the worst way.”
It’s not for the love of leaving
That eyes dissolve and lines lose meaning
Habits hard to break completely
She said “Please believe that we won’t grow lonely
No, we’ll only grow older, you’ll see. You’ll see.”
Then she let go
And he tore through another city with the lights down low
No regrets.
It’s just the faces that are hardest to explain
And to perfect.
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