Devious JournalI am a frantic winter wind trying to blow the last of my cold before it turns to spring.
I have a lot of bad habits.
The heart like a brass band, or a hand shaking a tambourine, or a piano a semi-tone out so that only those who listen can hear it.
If we could just be reckless for a while, pushing each other in front of buses and pulling each other back in at the last minute, shouting "I saved your life for love!" above the roar of traffic. We could be the rocks, the rising water and the boat dashed to pieces there, sirens singing off-key the way you like. How about a standing ovation, a curtain call, a dozen red roses thrown at the stage? What about a drunken brawl in some sunken alley-way and five chipped teeth? Broken jaws and bloody shirt-collars. If you'd let me I'd be the monster under your bed - a familiar fear - and then the soothing kiss afterwards (lips to your temple, hand smoothing your hair). We could be lovers like those who die pressed in history's pages: mountains or martyrs or murderers. I could keep you safe or not keep you at all.
Maybe.
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