A cigarette halfway burnt,
Tom Wait’s Kiss Me on replay,
An empty glass readied for its destiny,
A mouth still dry,
A decision to pour myself some cheap ice-cold whiskey, soothing an old soul,
A tired body and a sour back.
An old pen next to a forgotten book,
A look at the ring I keep in that hand,
As it swiftly brushed onto that pen, escorting it through a maze of memories of a writer.
A lone red rose was arranged.
The right music,
The right person,
A little wind coming from the window, touching the back of my neck, reminding me a little of your lips,
The sunlight lighting on the couch where I wished you’d be,
It was yet another Sunday; lazy, calm, but enjoyable, even if a little scary at times.
But I still managed to put some words down, I did try to write you, try and describe you.
But with each word I put down, I felt I was less basic, too poetic and criminally dishonest;
A familiar scent,
A haunting feeling,
A dance, some tears,
Fear and laughter,
Stories, a cup of coffee, a cigarette and more music.
I was helpless, unforgivingly unjust.
I could not write love, write about love, so I will write for you, and this is for you …
I felt like this is the best of ways to try and describe you.
I told them all I’m a writer, I claim that I am one but I am not;
I am more of a story teller at times,
I enjoy discribing life, and then telling the stories I’ve witnessed to the people I know,
All in the hope that one day, people will talk about me, tell some stories about me.
All in the hope that one day, you would tell these stories about me, about us.
I would tell you about my life, work, family,
I would tell you how I failed to write you,
I would tell you how I am falling for you deeper by the day,
I would tell you how I loved your earrings,
I would tell you that I loved how you wore them one day later,
You knew I noticed, and you still wear them.
This is how I been trying to write you.
Not the easiest at times, I must admit. It carries me away, onto a small journey on a trip of memories with you, how we met, how we came to expect of things. It was beautiful
As the best of stories that end up writing our lives, are the ones you never expect.
That’s how it starts, and for each piece I ever write for you, a red rose.