The Pettitfiles

One of the first I ever wrote, these road days and miles are winding down, time to get back to who I am, and yea, I’m a bit soft.  
What if all I am is a rhythm without the lyric.
A constant melody of shifting emotion wrapped in forms of intoxicating verses. It is the sweetest sound of your name from the openings of her mouth, corners of lips curled up in the shape of a smile. Strands of hair come undone from behind her ears, and fall across her face and cover the eyes, and it is here through this transparent mask there is no use in hiding anymore.
The cool air of sunset filters in the shapes around, here the angelic bliss comes closer. The texture of a kiss lingers on the anatomy of my lips, and now I’m left holding my eyes to yours and trying to unlock words to say. And then song begins again, as I see love in the corner of your eye, and now the soul melodic structure has a verse, or at least a chorus.
I thought about you in length today in the midst of my doings of nothing, just gathering the hours and bringing it to a close. I saw you at sunrise, sleep in your eye watching the explosion of a new day. Chilled air comes through naked maples and shines brightly long skinny shadows on the frozen ground. Streaking colors of violet and tangerine skies covered your face in a wash of color, as I kissed you on the neck and held you from behind. It somehow didn’t make sense of my rude image belonging in the picture, but it is my story and that’s how I see it. To flirt through a weekend morning, trying to watch my behavior, the stems of your legs shoot through the openings of my boxers and your body shrunken in my shirt, another wave of music enters my subconscious and adds to song.
In the vapors of afternoon rain, the cycle continuing upward in natures own rhythm, I pictured you through the steam, walking from rock to rock, I felt the base line of your feet carrying the beat, careful not yet to dip into rivers water. Your arms outstretched for balance as conducting an orchestra, condensations gathers around your finger tips, and the crash of symbols and drums rumbles from behind, it gathers a force when searching for a new stone, and then crescendos down when a path appears before you. It is here I know I’m dreaming, but there is no hurry to rub my eyes.

 In the imagination of love, softly knowing I’m headed towards the end. I can make out the lines around your face, and skin to my chest. Gathered in arms and lordly with feeling, I hold tightest to the knowing everyone has a song to sing. But it is here, undercover of thread count drifting in sheets, half tangled in reality and wanting, I’m comfortable in essence my arms are full and the song not yet complete. In its own music it shuffles over life and makes the words, but it is us who provide the voice.


One response

  1. What a beautiful Tuesday morning read. Deepest thanks

    July 5, 2016 at 7:47 am

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