Blood Stains and Ear Marked Words
Five filled up composition books and still it all remains a hazy mess of a dream,
the reality stings when she glances backwards,
peeling back layers of nonsense and verse,
the trappings of once falling in love with a writer,
as a writer.
She knows better than to read his words,
too well aware that she still looks for herself in the lyrics and lines, even if they are just fragments,
It is far easier to forget the angry tones,
the deep lines singed into his forehead,
her darkened eyes averting his gaze,
the child lost into the agony of choice,
and all those damn Sam rainy day regrets.
She ran and ran and ran as far away as she could go,
but it has never been enough.
She is happy now,
that is what she tells everyone,
He is clumsy with words,
and with his hands,
but he sits with her late into the night watching films they both forget they understand,
resting his head in her lap,
reciting back I love you, too.
He sings like an angel though,
and once upon a time could make her laugh herself into tears.
She is impossible to keep,
to hang on to, though.
She hides in-between lines,
disappearing into pages and ink stains,
headphones forever tucked under her long hair.
She makes love to songs,
and only comes in the confines of her memories.
Her sighs elicited only at the thought of movement,
of words exchanged.
The fool in the girl that she is waxes poetically about long lost love. She emotionally cuts,
re-opening old scars,
every time she clamors for his words,
and their words,
Here she goes,
still trying to see.
His songs slip into remarks and refrains,
infinite playlists that circle back to train tunnels,
and frozen lip kisses.
He threw them away long ago,
the photographic evidence,
but he still glances at her words some afternoons,
curious at the cast shadows that play.
They could kill this cat in an instant,
but neither ever confronts or complains,
though each song leaves a matchless mark.
Still she wonders if he looks for himself in her words,
if he wonders what she is like now,
if certain songs still bring back bricks and buildings,
lake side wanderings,
and long Sundays with stacks of magazines.
They were once really something to be reckoned with,
writing odes to made up lovers,
their Trixie and Mush tales,
roses and wine glasses,
thorns and bleeding shards stuck in skin.
They were something brilliant and bright until it all fell down,
She will say it makes for great words,
lyrical longings full of pain,
and of achings to be,
when two writers become lovers,
she has so much to say,
but no more words.
Until the End of the World (cover) :: Patti Smith