Sara's Song
I take a minute out of my day, possibly a respite from a nostalgic daydream, when the past becomes uncomfortably close to real, the scent of it redolent with present oppressions. These are the times when memory rings truly a blessing and a curse. As they say, you can't know the sweet without the sour.
This is the letter that I will never write you. Some wounds are best left unopened. Some fools are best left not wondering, "what if?"
As the clock rounds 1 am, and G Love spins his crooning lovesong to your namesake, the pillars of my soul tremble with the echo of your smile. It tickles a memory of your voice, that pure angelic timbre bent upon leveling me. Goddamn, your modesty about that voice was ticklish in a way that is fun at first, but quickly turns to pain.
At three-o-clock sits my wine glass, expressing a mere mortal's potential. The screen at twelve-o-clock is a sad reflection of my mind. And you, a misty reflection of distilled desire in a sad drunken poet's pining memories.
As I sit here bathed in a comfortable blue light, I sip longinly at my merlot and take a lingering look back into the darkness. I phase shift and draw upon the memories of us lying upon that evergreen hill. Children were playing around us, and you were embarassed by their presence as we kissed. You'll never know how innocent I thought your embarassment was.
The sharp tinge of alcohol breaks me free of my reverie, and I gather myself to place the bits and bytes upon my screen; the aching maw of night sleeps outside the window sill. I laugh quietly at myself. Taking one last heady draught I peel my thoughts away from my keystrokes and meander back to the bed, nostalgia in my footsteps and oblivion on my horizon.
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