It was dark as I drove the point home...
Sweet Marie, she loves just me
(She also loves Maurice McGhee).
No she don't, she loves just me
(She also loves Louise Dupree).
No she don't, she loves just me
(She also loves the willow tree).
No she don't, she loves just me!
(Poor, poor fool, why can't you see
She can love others and still love thee.)
[Shel]
By the time I've noticed October it's almost gone; are you ok heart? Prepare for nostalgia onslaught. I get irresistible urges to buy new notebooks, organize my desk drawers, read old love letters and set fires. It should be cold to the point of bitter, beret weather, burning leaves and early morning shiver. Instead I write in my skin listen to Kid A with windows down in my head down a long flat highway, stars flung over one shoulder toward the ocean alone. Days are longer than months this time of year; sometimes I should go but I don't, I shouldn't go but I do. Feeling october as I haven't in too long, giddy-shivery despite the rainforest heat and bare feet. There's a ring around the moon and it feels like snow. It's raining declarative sentences. I'm happily distracted, out of sorts and I love the way I can't finish a sentence this week. Spend a week with the covers to your chin if you can - crank the air up to make it cold and autumn-y if you must.
daylight drifted into haze - I must have been asleep for days...
(&congratulations,
you. missive pending.)
