Bent Words

Bent Words

October 04, 2008

Whether itís right or wrong or caught somewhere in the shadows in between, I come here to talk to you. I know youíre not listening anymore but itís worthwhile for me to believe that perhaps, just maybe, you still are. I can sometimes feel you there on the edge of my heart looking in on what might have been the brightest room in the house, hoping to catch a glimpse of what was and thatís when Iím convinced youíre the only one who gets it or would get it or, at least, used to get it.

So I come here to talk to you because what I miss the most is having that comprehension, that real connection, that empathetic evening before a new day sweeps stability away. I miss sitting with you on the step of a hard concrete world, throwing a few back to wash down the bitter tastes of work, swapping tales and trading secrets of the trade, learning more in five minutes than I have learned in five months where I am now and just being. Knowing I was so close to the one person who really knew. Sharing shades of sympathy, reaching out without feeling completely lost, losing your eyes to a slow and lingering far-off interpretation, relating and receiving a bit of comprehension, a few sincere nods of the head Ė thatís what I miss the most.

And it's not just about me because I also come here to listen to you. You do not write or speak or contribute as you once did but when I'm here, alone at night, lost in what I'd like to say, you're as close as they come and I can feel you next to me, waiting for whatever's next, ready to answer all the questions Iíve held over the years. I may miss the mark completely, I might be utterly unaware of what's going on, miles away from what fills your head, ignorant of your success, blind to your pain -- yet I conjecture. I see you... growing with your children, making plans and finding faith. I see you with your head down, wondering if what you're doing is right, breaking your brain to make things better. I hear your soul hoping for health, longing for the open road, struggling for refinement, glancing back on occasion, brimming with brilliance. You fight to face forward and it seems as though you're winning.

I see you there. Free and flying. And I remember, too, how you flew.

But sometimes you can't go back. Sometimes you can't go forward.

And so we're on opposite ends.

Written at 4:52 p.m.