Means of Transition
August 28, 2010 § Leave a comment
I would rather see I highlighted. When sad I’d rather see it, than Schubert my last desperate resort.
I don’t play anymore. Do you? Strings gather dust when left untouched, and I could meander into an awkwardly meaningful metaphor here, but I won’t. Leave it at that.
It overcame me over coffee. Not the transition, but the realisation of transition. It hit me like a song in the left lung. Who sings with their right?
I’ll write you a postcard.
One with a man in a kilt on a windy day. Or a Betty Boop-alike tucking into haggis.
Last year I was a character in a colder climate, part of ‘Portions for Foxes’, all of that attracted I. Had you not had a flashing sign above your head that read ‘Bad News’, I would have stayed away.
And out of sight.
Change means I am no longer tragically attracted to hurt. Only on occasion, and now I heal like a burns victim on acid. Invertedly.
Have you understood any of the above? Maybe. Slivers. But you certainly didn’t read between the fourth and fifth line, and you certainly
I forgave you before you squeezed out a sorry from your dog-eat-eat heart. Meant? Unheartfelt? I don’t know