I’ve got those blues, if I ain’t got you;
The homicide of lounging and dreaming
Here I stand, tall in the shade,
Expressing no color, caught in my
Cabin overlooking the ocean.
My dreams vanishing like cigarette
Smoke, and I see archetypes of you
Wandering down the stairs, holding
Vogue in your hands; judging Manolo
Blahnik. And we would then argue.
You see, I ain’t got those blues,
If I ain’t got you.
Your life’s journey; one magical movement,
One journey across the melancholy mass,
From Keter to Malchut.
Here I am looking at you; you looking
At me. And I just don’t understand.
And the corner of your dress gets caught
On the edge of the table. You float like
A phantom, and when I would start to
Complain, you would place your finger
Over my lips; and I would remember
The red-haired girl riding a bike past those
White wooden Pennsylvanian fences,
As summer stammered its baking hell.
And I would remember smelling the scent of
Freshly baked bread, and then recall the moment
Of collecting sea shells on some faraway shore;
The waves folding like freshly pressed sheets
That my mother used to wash then iron.
I remember you wearing an Open-Knit Ballet-Neck
Sweater, smiling like my eyes were some Renaissance
Canvas. You had just beaten me at Twister and we had
Finished a bottle of wine; and I would think of sad love
Songs, as the Cadillac lay half buried in the sand; the chrome
Stained and dripping.
The cabin by the ocean is all I have left of you; strumming
Soul with its peculiarities, but the music was more in you
Than in me. This parliament’s on fire, and I now love your
Complaints concerning my hairstyle. I look for you in the shadows
Of the cabin, for not only do the shadows offer shade from the
Stammered sun, but I now do not understand the light.
Anyway, it’s safer than a strange land.
All I can think of to say is “Stay. Do something.”