0725 -- A Tri-Color Christmas in July
Jul. 25th, 2012 08:34 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
memorialrainbowIrony strikes in the form of lightning; God's tears fall upon my face.
I rouse myself after a long night of dreaming of subway trains, and the city I love so much, and the night when I released my seatbelt and flew into the air. Miles away, those who are structured bear down on us. I long to release the one with iron wings, one who inspires me still. I remember the long drives, the smell of Paris in the wheels, echoes of a long-ago midnight rave woven into the platinum night. The stars shone above my heads, stellar reminders of the memories I weaved here.
Now, I weave one more.
Why?
He sleeps next to me in my bed. The mysteries of what happened haven't been unraveled yet, but I am aware I have created something way beyond myself, that my music has brought something more into existence. If I am a swan, he is a pigeon: dirty, steadfast, most of all unknown. We sit into the night and read poetry; I reach into him and find myself, in our shared experiences, our highs and lows.
Together, we unbuckle our seatbelts. Air jumps should not be used as a frequent mode of transportation, but tonight, in our city, they are enough. Times Square shines as bright as it did that April night, on a night when the lights shine as stars in a sea, and we are all little koi fish.
The world spins closer and closer to the reality I am creating, in control. I no longer hate myself. We organize a daily "penguin and pigeon dance" on Vesey Street, in which we cut loose and waddle and strut our stuff. For, as we all know, it is truly the pigeons who rule New York.
Somewhere, in the heart of it all, there is an echo, as we all are. If that echo spins again, I will answer the call. But my anticipation is right here, in the arms of my confidant, and I remember only one fact:
I miss you.
We don't quite know how many times this has happened. We don't quite how to fix it. But if we can sing in harmony again, I think we could create a rainbow of color. Would you? Can you find yourself and come back to me? And, if you do, will I need you enough for you to stay? I don't know the answer to that question just yet.
The sunlight filters through my window; I start another day. Somewhere, in this city, you are living, praying, loving, breathing. But it is all just as before: an echo.
"I thought I saw you out my window
I don't get why you left my side
Am I that clingy, that possessive --
or did you teach me what it means to ride?"
And this is the wonder that keeps the stars apart.
I rouse myself after a long night of dreaming of subway trains, and the city I love so much, and the night when I released my seatbelt and flew into the air. Miles away, those who are structured bear down on us. I long to release the one with iron wings, one who inspires me still. I remember the long drives, the smell of Paris in the wheels, echoes of a long-ago midnight rave woven into the platinum night. The stars shone above my heads, stellar reminders of the memories I weaved here.
Now, I weave one more.
Why?
He sleeps next to me in my bed. The mysteries of what happened haven't been unraveled yet, but I am aware I have created something way beyond myself, that my music has brought something more into existence. If I am a swan, he is a pigeon: dirty, steadfast, most of all unknown. We sit into the night and read poetry; I reach into him and find myself, in our shared experiences, our highs and lows.
Together, we unbuckle our seatbelts. Air jumps should not be used as a frequent mode of transportation, but tonight, in our city, they are enough. Times Square shines as bright as it did that April night, on a night when the lights shine as stars in a sea, and we are all little koi fish.
The world spins closer and closer to the reality I am creating, in control. I no longer hate myself. We organize a daily "penguin and pigeon dance" on Vesey Street, in which we cut loose and waddle and strut our stuff. For, as we all know, it is truly the pigeons who rule New York.
Somewhere, in the heart of it all, there is an echo, as we all are. If that echo spins again, I will answer the call. But my anticipation is right here, in the arms of my confidant, and I remember only one fact:
I miss you.
We don't quite know how many times this has happened. We don't quite how to fix it. But if we can sing in harmony again, I think we could create a rainbow of color. Would you? Can you find yourself and come back to me? And, if you do, will I need you enough for you to stay? I don't know the answer to that question just yet.
The sunlight filters through my window; I start another day. Somewhere, in this city, you are living, praying, loving, breathing. But it is all just as before: an echo.
"I thought I saw you out my window
I don't get why you left my side
Am I that clingy, that possessive --
or did you teach me what it means to ride?"
And this is the wonder that keeps the stars apart.
