Times Are Hard For Dreamers

J,   If ever I could find a way, should find a way, to express precisely how I feel about you—in every variation and complication—it would be in a song. I would not have a voice in it, nor even a part with instrument. In fact, I would be completely, silently within it. Not separated—simply a part of the vibration, the atmosphere of it all.   You would see my small, slender hands with cherry blossom fingertips gently orbiting the notes. You would feel the circles of blue, my eyes, linger on a corner of your cheeks as you spectate carefully. You would watch as each note in a procession, spinning softly as a mobile, succeeds one another sadly. You would sense it all, every part of sadness, confusion, anger and admiration, if you carried it with you.   Yet, the song is so much more than even that.   It was writing on the beach two summers ago.   It was a melting orange seeping far into a cave of green.   It was the smell of smooth paper ...

Was it a sleepful illusion, my remembering you have no want of me? How strange it is feeling a sense of unmerited silence —a rejection of spirits, almost. It felt like a heavy dream my almost loving you—whomever you are.   Were you wanting Kate Moss? A ransom of burning elegance? Perhaps a small poem for a flicker of pleasure? Or was it more so a person to care affectionately   for you? Was it a person to yield? A stillness ever crafted to listen? With cupped hands, I would have passed it all to you, friend.   You can have it all, even now.   I am a circle.   I am somehow, a lush green Edward Hopper painting of a woman reading on a slow passing train with an orange bridge of light though   a window. It may interest you to know, I am   also a comforting black sweater as   soft and sad as Summer’s last night   of stars.   I am not, however, Kate Moss or a stunning, erotic be...