Perhaps it’s the past, lasting from there to here, yesteryears making me fear for your safety. What we thought we had, but turned out to be deeper than tide pools, young fools with a long distance fling over the internet. Cynical, but I’m willing to bet that it would have burned out, pouting in misery because history tells me that I needed to hug you and kiss you to be true to who you really were.
So we moved on, but upon that golden dreamland there does exist reality, I deny callously when I worry for you, that you’re going to burn out, and feel alone. I’ve got a bone to pick with your definition of beautiful. Culled from the finest of rose thorns, you don’t want to hit my patch of scorn, forlorn because I still can’t hang out with you, one of my closest friends.
People can pretend, but if you died, inside I’d not just cry, I’d wail, a hundred thousand moons not being soon enough to find me solace. We’re ancient, Cynthia, two old seashells adrift on the ocean. Perhaps the water line is rising, submerging us, lying, and flooding the earth, but you’re worth so much that it doesn’t matter.
I’ll drown if it means you can live on, as shady a pawn as I may sound. I don’t want this cancer of the mind, I’ll be blind before I’ll be conscious of you disappearing, because we’re nearing the start, not the end, friend. You don’t have to pretend that I’m right, you just have to believe me.
So weary as you may be, you’re free of mind and body, so be gaudy, be loud, be a little bit naughty, but to the edge of reason, and not beyond it. Fond-lit candles will be in my window, friend, and I’m serious, don’t pretend, you’re simply on the mend.
You’re just a hermit crab, taking a stab at a game of craps; rolling the dice and praying you slice up a seven, eleven, or whatever else you bet on. You and I can cheat at it together, we’ll be better at it on the sly, wry at our sneaky attitudes. When you roll up your life to hit the road, just shift modes from fast to cold, take it slow, show me your eyes of coal, and I’ll show you mine of grey.
I have my own lack of religion, but I’ll pray for you every day, until you say that you’re okay, fraying still, but chill, ready to kill time and be happy again. Just send for me and I’ll be there, where you are. We can sip at cold drinks in the sun, and talk about the fun we’ve had in life, the strife forgotten, tossed away skyward.
Farther down the river we’ll see our mates, who hate that we’re able to reminisce so easily, and sleazily will drag us into the water, free to float in oceans one more – seashells in the tide. I’m up for the ride if you are, star.
Life is simply stepping stones, you have to come off your high throne and take in the ground floor, from the poor to the rich, the nice guys and that one bitch, to work your way through it. Prove it to me that you can, and I’ll land us a sweet spot, somewhere on the sand, where it’ll all pan out to be pretty fly.
Because both you and I know, that sky is the only thing keeping us from what we try to do, so you’ll have to take the advantage. Fly, grow wings, and deny me what lies above, you wry little dove, I’ll keep my feet here on solid ground, and pound it into my head some more, so that you’ll be able to shy away from that dark place lurking so close.
So please, Cynthia, please, freeze before you act. Make a pact to me upon hearing this requiem for the dark, as I bark an epiphany for sorrow, I sing of brighter tomorrows, where I’ll borrow your optimism for a day, just to say you’re braying out a chorus of life itself.
You’re a beautiful spirit, here, and it nears perfection, despite what you believe. I’m relieved to kneel before and appreciate your grace. But keep your space, I’ll try to keep you down to earth. Search your soul and toll twelve, shelve that discontent, and lament your loss of tears!
It’s a new day, Cynthia. Wake up and smell the flowers, for power is there for the taking, not as a tyrant, but as songbird, heard and obeyed. Wake up, smell the ring of what we sing. I’m a king of something small. Ballsy but insignificant, ranting and raving about how life picks me up from the low, letting me flow again.
It’s your turn now. Show me you can. Show me your blueprint plan for resurrection. Show me your final stand and your blunt demand for solace. I love you like a sister, but love hurts like a blister when it comes to partners. However you need to move, and prove you’re soothed by more than simple heart flusters, or feather-duster heartstring musters. It’s trust or death, lovely, and suddenly, I’m rhyming to thy sanctity. After all, your personality did make me your friend, handily.
I’ll be by your side, along for the ride, biding my time as a guide and waiting at the bottom of the slide to make sure you don’t bruise. Trust me, love thee, and spread it all around.
You’re stronger than you think.
