Daydreaming
In a tiny Chinese joint, the people scurry in and out. My mind drifts away as I wait to a timeless swirl of light and voices. The inner soundtrack is something like George Crumb, but muffled.
UNTITLED
The sadness is infinite. And your eyes are quiet as you face the mirror. A soft gray fog has settled in and holds you hostage. There are no rules for losing it.
REPLAY
A million times I've played over the scenes in my head. The nights I've never told you, the times we've never met. There was sambuca and reggae at Cafe Monmarte, a bottle of Rothschild cabernet and oysters at Magnus, and of course steaming chai and window shopping on the sidewalk under the trees strung with glowing popcorn lights. Then too was a small leather journal I gave you to capture the images of France as it passed by you on the train bound for a small village overlooking the Mediterranean.
I step off the elevators and you're in my lobby. Or you call at 3 am from Tokyo and with backpack in hand I am on the corner in ten minutes hailing a cab to LaGuardia. I'd swim an ocean of jagged glass to be with you. Not sure you know that, or what you'd say if you did.
Posted by Amanda at November 11, 2002 10:32 PM
