Monday, November 30, 2015

Southern Rain

Five years ago, he was walking in the rain in southern California hoping for a good photo.
It was night time- and he had just met a girl not long before-
one that would be the undoing of his heart.

He told himself he wasn’t going to date her, that she looked too different than his normal fare.
But it became something anyway. 

Of course it did, he was him
he that did things like that
heart before head.

There was a book.

A bit of writing he’d been plowing away at for sometime, 
about the last time his heart was run through by a long
red
fingernail.

“This was different” was the thought when coming out of that bar in downtown a few nights before
her voice is different, her face is different, and her hair-
from a dark raven to a golden fleece.


He would never think clearly again.


There was this book though.


He was a painter, a sketcher, and a poet (on his drunken days)
green bottles with little Scottish ships on the label clinking underfoot of this apartment
then one day, after the raven, he began to string together thoughts longer than a paragraph,
longer than a page,
then longer than a chapter.

There was the book.

And it was good.



But it was lost when he lost himself.

Five years later-
he’s in Kentucky, away from everything
it’s raining
there’s another girl- an incredible one
a woman.



and It’s about time he tried again. 




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