Negotiating With the Dead

Taking you back in time. Two years, give or take a few months. Fasten the makeshift seat belts for this time machine wasn't designed for more than one. I promise nothing more than a return to the right here right now that you leave ahead and now that it is understood between us...shut the door. We are getting outta here.

Are your ears still ringing after crashing through the years and when I speak do my lips form unintelligent words. Maybe we will understand better now that the protocol of words is stalled and we negotiate through gestures- untaught in the doctrine of kinesics we have nothing to misrepresent, mislead or misconstrue. When I was a child I would peer through coloured glasses- one half of the world would be flushed with bright lemon sunlight and one bathed in lurid chiaroscuro. But don't let me distract you...we didn't come all the way back for coloured glasses...but who knows when blood dries on red glasses or when red roses bleed.

Walk in...don't touch the dusty song sheets slipped under coffee mugs and yes, I know I never finished writing it down and yes I know you could help me with the finale but you can't change a thing here and when we go back it would be gone. Walk over..around the couch...don't worry thats just me trying to get some sleep before another working day tries to enervate.But before I wake up lets wind up the thing we came here for, shall we? Right? Good.

I want you to see this girl I have trapped within raspberry and tulip frames. She is so beautiful, unclouded brows, a smile and not a preset. I had a good mind of throwing her away, but this baby intrigues me and I kept her on the shelve. Somewhere where I could forget that she exists so that years of dust could hide...sorry...I forgot you are still around. Was I talking to myself? I am crazy? Then what are you?

But shh...you will wake me up. Tell me, how does she make self sufficiency seem so simple or love her little world with unconditional love. Like music not yet recalled is made of, which lulls you to sleep, colours your dreams, like an atmospheric flute playing and losing identity with your subdued attempts to hum. Nothing hackneyed...not like it is now.

But, I sound too much like an emo and excuse my sentimentalizing the dead. Its time for us to leave...close the door softly behind.