the greatest love song ever written

Twenty miles left to the show
Hello my old country hello
Stars are just beginning to appear
And I have never in my life before been here

And it's my heart, not me, who cannot drive
In which conclusion you arrive
Watching me sit here bolt upright and cry
For no good reason at the Eastern sky

And the tilt of this strange nation
And the will to remain for the duration
Waving the flag, feeling it drag

Like a bump on a bump on a log, baby
Like I'm in a fist fight with a fog, baby
Step-ball-change and a pirouette
And .. and I regret, I regret

How I said to you, honey, just open your heart
When I've got trouble even opening a honey jar
And that right there is where we are

And I been 'fessing double fast
Addressing questions nobody asks
I'll get this joy off of my chest at last
And I will love you 'til the noise has long since passed

And I did not mean to shout, just drive
Just get us out, dead or alive
A road too long to mention, Lord It's something to see..
Laid down by the good intentions paving company

All the way to the thing we've been playing at, darlin'
I can see that you're wearing your staying hat, darlin'
For the time being all is well
Won't you love me a spell?

This is blindness beyond all conceiving
Well, behind us the road is leaving, and leaving
And falling back
Like a rope gone slack

And I saw straight away that the lay was steep
But I fell for you, honey, as easy as falling asleep
And that right there is the course I keep...

And no amount of talking
Is going to soften the fall
But, like after the rain, step out
Of the overhang, that's all

It had a nice a ring to it
When the old opry house rang
so, with a solemn auld lan syne, sealed, delivered,
I sang.

And there is hesitation
And it always remains
Concerning you, me,
And the rest of the gang

And in our quiet hour
I feel I see everything

And am in love with the hook
Upon which everyone hangs

And I know you meant to show the extent
To which you gave a goddang
You ranged real hot and real cold,
But I'm sold.
I am home on the range

And I do hate to fold
Right here at the top of my game
When I've been trying with my whole heart and soul
To stay right here in the right lane

But it can make you feel over and old
Lord, you know it's a shame
When I only want for you to pull over
and hold me, 'Til I can't remember my own name.

I want to read your diary, I want to see you through the window when you're alone. I want to hear you describe times and places and events and people, and most importantly me. I want to see you let your guard down and I want to let mine down to match; I want a mutual vulnerability we're both aware of, a locked-eyes agreement, a silent promise of delicacy and care.

Suddenly, shockingly, you've all been reduced to pinpricks, every new attack on every new day. Nothing more than the thorns on a beautiful bush of a life. You may scratch my surface, I may forget for a time, but I extract you with ease and head on, leaving behind me a trail; your attempts at destruction, a warning and a reminder not to turn back. It's not that I'm tougher, or my exterior is hardened or I'm stronger or more resilient; I can't be sure exactly if it's any consequence of mine, or just time, or a realization (a re-realization?) of how little it really matters, how little damage could really be done.

In some ways though you're like a guardian angel, you tug at my golden leash if I should falter and if I never leave your sight I am not afraid.

War

It hurts to try and retaliate, if that's even what it is I'd be doing. Does it change what it's called or make it less ugly once we decide it's what has to be done? There's no other way? Even if we and everyone we know can justify it one thousand times over, does that make it any less of what it is?

It hurts to look back and divide the times into befores and afters. Oh, remember this moment, or this day, before things fell apart, before everything was a mess. And maybe it's easier on the heart to try and remember mostly good, to powder things down and dress them up and fit them into boxes with pretty labels, even when they don't belong. Because otherwise doesn't it seem more useless, or worthless, like we fought and suffered and maybe it was really for nothing?

free write? PRACTICE? LET IT OUT?

"Can you tell if you're alone - do you think you can tell the difference once you're asleep? I mean can you still feel me here by you? Or is it all the same once we start dreaming?"

He turned to face her, still half covered in the darkness of almost sleep and his face was frowning though his eyes were soft. "How should I know?"

She shrugged, almost undetected, but he heard her sigh, her worry sigh.

"I know the falling asleep part doesn't work so well if you're gone, and I know the waking up part is a big let down if the bed's empty and cool."

She seemed satisfied enough and slipped her hand into his, fingers tucked into their own tiny beds, coming to rest easily and soon he felt the subtle twitches of sleep taking her from him to dreams.

Too needy, too reliant.

I'm not even the same person anymore I once was, not in a good matured-grown way,
in a forgotten way. In a tragic way.

Once part of an island sinks below the water it usually stays put, it's not definite, it's not lost forever, but visiting is a task, a day-trip, that's just the kind of time I don't have.

Everyplace I go I sprout new anchors, every inch of me is sprouting, one for each and every place and person and ache and wish and desire. Slowing me, slower, slower, slower.

Aside from time, it's such risky business, all these anchors would surly be more at home in the depths and dig themselves in, do their jobs, do just what they are meant to. Do just what's expected of them, fulfillment, achievement.

I'm still waiting to feel like the person everyone keeps describing when they tell me about myself.