A lovesong for the lovelorn

A simple thing.  A phrase.  A thought.  But I am tongue bound and silent instead.  Resigned. Designed for solitude and watching. And I love.

I love, love.

I love this day and watching the people I love, love the people they love, and celebrate, and I wonder.

What was the combination of words? What was the play, or the act, or the book of poetry used to unlock that...what?

Reality caught up to fantasy, and played me fractured, and the story of it will make me laugh someday.

Like all my stories do.

I laugh a lot.

Today I bled distraction, and caught my breath. And wondered briefly where I've been, but it didn't matter because I had a great time, and brought back a mug that said wish you were here.

And that's the thing.
I have fun.
My god is it fun.

And sure sometimes I need a bandaid, or a face slap, but that's just part of the joy.

And not only do I anticipate making the same mistakes again, I look forward to it. To that brief interlude, that aria, that singular voice that sings me gently human.

Again.

And again.

Our fancies pass, and mysteries resolved and solved, but therein is deception.

For the blues in the rhythm is amore morte, and they all wear pink at the funeral.

And the man wearing black, said she'll never love you back, and it turned into a thought that quits.

But the music plays on, and the other dancers keep dancing, the players playing, and the world keeps spinning round round baby right round.

So I pound it against the rock, the stone, the sun bleached bones that cage it, to find the story inside...

Because the story.
My story...
Your story...
Our story together...

That's what I am here for.  I will bleed for it. I will ache for it.  I will crave more desperately for it, than for food, sex, or nicotine....

The story.
THE story.
the STORY of who we are
Versus who we may have been.

This is who I am.
The jester.
The joker.
The Astral bloke who will cry and decry mortem mortalis with the laughter of the living.