It’s just the way I feel when we’re talking
There are stories aplenty on my bookshelves
It’s just the space between my hears that gets bored
when you are the mirror image of the reflections of a ford
somewhere in the road is water but had you ought to?
Drive on through and risk breaking down in three inches of water?
While I calculate the age of a tree by counting its rings ever so carefully
you are onto another subject so I carry on counting until all the rings are counted
Then I start again convinced that the record will jump itself out of sync with you
whom I am trapped in a spin heading fast towards a sand dune. Blue Blue Blue.
I am not stupid. You are not fast but today our synchromesh is broken and we spin like tops, bouncing around in a wooden box. It could be worst there could be mines but we spin
on through the hours like watches on fast forward until its time for you to go. I apologise for being too slow and you remark its good to go fast. We part but the echoes of the spin
remain like ghosts running out of time hogging the slime light afterglow many of us know.
Pushing through the clouds below is a needle threaded and true about to knit you a new shadow. Its plain to see that you are the light and shine you might like a beggar and his plight onto the mute that is humanity at a loss for words.