It rained that day
Hissing like snakes
On wet pavement
Eleven stories below,
Streaming down the
Matted tangled braids
Of the bag lady
In front of the 7-11
Across the street.

Wipers on cars danced to
His melancholy poetry,
His smoky trance of voice
Drifting like a lazy mist
Through the room.
'A Strange Kind of Love',
My very favourite
Peter Murphy.

I move backwards in time,
Replay the reel.

The melody moves like irony.

The world gone black and white,
The colours aren't waterproof
Bled out into the gutters.
Rainbow will come later
Paint it all back.
A double rainbow this day.

I don't know about prayer
But miracles do happen
Unexpectedly.

Phone rings cutting
Across my little reverie.
A sense of relief as I reach
For the receiver
Realizing how bitter lonely
256 shades of grey
Can be.

'I lost my voice'.

"Not really", I reply
"I can still hear you but I
just have to know, this whispering
Is this a dirty phone call"

"Jerk! No really I'm kinda down".

I bite my tongue so many different ways.

"Do you think I could come over?"
Her voice husky and broken she still
sounds like a memory from
Childhood fantasies.


"Grab a cab, I'll pay for it,
See you in ten"

I place the brandy snifter down
Gently, With shaking hands
On my dining table.
Stare at the painting on the wall
The one that breaks my heart.
Woman, piano, cello player eyes
Closed in rapture.
Sublime creation and pain.

'This is no terror ground
Or place for the rage
No broken hearts
White wash lies'

His voice narrating my mood,
Synchronicity can be such
A gorgeous bitch!

She hasn't called since Thursday
It's fucking Sunday.
My friend saw her at a restaurant
With her date.
She pretended not to see him
Walked back out in a hurry.

I died a thousand ways in those
Three lousy days.

She's isn't mine. A person
Can't be owned anyways but
We aren't even dating.

Officially.

She didn't have to lie,
Shovel in the ground of my heart
Digging a grave.

"Blind to the gemstone alone
A smile from a frown circles round
Should he stay or should he go"

He tortures me in the most beautiful ways
This is not music , it's a haunting.
A call from deeper inside than most
Would want to visit.

She comes into the room
And brings back all the oxygen with her
Because I realize I've been holding
My breath in a vacuum.
This tentacled thing that was
Living in my throat just
Turned to liquid and slid
Down with the last gulp
Of brandy.
I want to cry from relief,
I want to kiss her,
Or maybe slap her face.

Instead I hug her.

"I've had a lousy week-end"
She croaks.

This is my special gift to her,
I heal all wounds
With silent understanding.
She's free here.

"Just a taste for the truth
Perfect taste choice and meaning
A look into your eyes"

I can't stand the pregnancy of irony
Any more. I turn off the music.
Peter's fingers slowly uncurl
From my wounded soul.
I feel a sense of loss
Something half remembered
Leaving.

Time blurs like the rain streaked
City skyline in the grey of dusk,
We are tangled in a blanket
Of quiet conversation.
Soul brushing.
Words that come like heartbeats.
She falls asleep
In my arms.

I never ask her about her date.

She is hungry for love. Terrified.
She comes to me and runs away
Only to come again.

Her head on my chest, long lenght
Of her stretched across my couch.
Breathing deeply in safe dreams.
I close my eyes and try to make
This moment an infinty.
All of reality.

She's free here.
And me?

I reach gently for the remote,
Start the Cd again, another song
Sing for me Peter baby...

"Yeah on and on it goes, calling like a distant wind
Through the zero hour we'll walk... cut the thick and break the thin
No sound to break, no moment clear
when all the doubts are crystal clear"

He makes hurting a beautiful thing.

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