Staircase

You're a shell of yourself.  I'm choking on my words.  I scribble out the words in my car before they leave me completely.  This is no safe task, I assure you, I'm aware, but they are all too accurate to let slip into the nothingness.  Words fade.  I'm the type of girl who needs to hear your name twice to know it.  Napkins to be scribbled upon.  Rarely have I tried to grab those fading thoughts, as it is almost a crime to forget.  So I'm using my muscles to understand, shaking dust off my brain to hear what is really rolling around in my brain, the loose marbles of passing thought, clattering around until they fall out the back of this rolling table top.

Walking down the possibilities.  Blisters will encroach upon your feet, surely.  Truly, clearly will things be laid out before you.  This clarity is really a fleeting dream.  Reality sets in, cold, and hard, and a fog bank, and hard to see other sides of things.  One set of eyes is what we have to see our reality, yet, we forget our other senses begging for a chance to hear the grand notes whisk the mind away from a piano's soothing melodies.  We forget that our mouths can taste things, and that our hands can touch things, knowing the surface of what is around us.  We neglect our nose, smelling the sensations, connecting us solidly to memories, like the smell of your mother's perfume, or the scent of the air before and after it rains.  To miss the smell of summer skin, sunscreen, and late night campfires.  Reality in muddled senses.  We forget to walk with our feet, and we crawl our way through without experiencing what we've been given, what we are, our uniqueness, and our common threads that tie us together.

Forgetting to walk seems to be a trend.  Walk me down the possibilities.

You're a shell of yourself.

I'm choking on my words.

I'm choking on my tears.

I'm choking on my fears.

You're a shell of yourself.

Where have you been?

The Sound of Coming Again

Tell me all your secrets,

I'll tell you mine.

I'm tired of this wasting of time.

We all know how it slips through our fingertips,

But if you don't know, you soon will,

I am spilling

All the paint

All the water

All the oil

All the spoils

Whisper your secrets

I'll whisper mine,

We can breathe life

We can breathe

I don't know if you were breathing.

I know at many a moment, I really wasn't.

It still seems hard to breathe.

And the sounds are raindrops on the windows

And the sounds are tears flooding into

Something of a river of things never flowed

Unanswered

Answered

Undercurrent trying still

Still trying

Still

You know me all too well.

Yet sometimes I don't know myself at all.

Secrets on the wind

Coming again.

Come again