Should I read between this and that line,
if ever I thought it’d be a good time,
I’d see a piece of you here and there, all right.
But I write in the dark, behind a closed door at night.
So if some of you made your way into the room,
and got stretched across my word-weaving loom,
I’d apologize, but say thanks for the light.
But, reach out I never did.
Rather, I stayed here and hid
behind recollections fogged in,
almost, but not quite, forgotten.
Where you became a thought without a face,
and I, in the dark, one with barely a trace,
a memory of a someone locked out, not in.
Maybe we’ll meet some distant day
and perhaps then I’ll hear you say,
“I think I remember you.
You’re the one who
wrote songs that might be about me.”
And I’d say, “Perhaps, yes.
But my memory it lapses.
So these words might’ve happened without me.”
They may be woven of the chaff
of long ago when I’d laugh
at how I let life put me through paces.
I lost sight of you, and a part of me too.
Perhaps, blurred without traces, but
through God’s holy graces, amen,
we’ll finally recognize
one another not just by words, by the eyes…
but only when we have faces again.
When we have faces again.
Because you asked me. But I thought I’d torture myself (and you readers) and make this writing a bit more difficult on myself–which will ever be my artistic wont–with some sort of half-assed rhyme scheme. Cryptic, I know…even to me.