I Love You

Hi.  Welcome.  Thanks for dropping by.  It's good to see you after so long.  Are you going to stay?  I hope you are.  I'm not the best host and hell, I'm not even your best friend, even though we are so heck supposed to be so close.  You my very own sweet self 'n me.  Still, I hope you'll stay.  We'll work it out.  I know your bitch against me is real.  Or at least as real as it gets.  I've no bitch against you, you know that.  It's just that I prefer to break every rule in the book and show a finger to the consequences.  And you hate me for it.  Okay hate is the wrong word.  You are frustrated.  That I'm tying my shoelaces together and getting tripped over by my own two stupid clown feet, while these Hermes' racers are raring to leave a vapor trail for photons to catch up. 

So here's the deal.  I lace up these shoes.  You stay.  We work it out.  The whole shitaree.  Yeah you and me babe.  All over again.  As it was in the beginning right before the clock started the tick-tock tick-tock and you wondered whatever happened to now with all this nonsense about yesterday and tomorrow.  Back to now. 

No promises.  You know what a fool's errand that is.  Like a second skin sitting there lookin pretty and inviting just waiting to be ripped to shreds.  No promises.  Side step the recursive lock that the intellect springs - 'it doesn't make sense, "no promise", is already a promise'.  You know how you can get chased into the hallway of mirrors and get lost in there angling the light this way and that.  Sharp angles of showmanship, you could almost believe it was the truth, 'cept for the sound of the light bouncing off the mirror.  No promises.

You and I.  Take this town to task.  Show 'em what a good time really is.  Break out the banjos, oomph up the percussion, reverb the strings, nothing but the music, burnin live fire in our souls.  You know it.  Let's do it.  Again.  Not tomorrow, not after the taxes are filed, the bank tanked up, the watchmen butchered, not after that. 

Yeah, and I can feel the big empty coming up out there.  Nothing but the stark reminder of nothingness.  Meaninglessness.  Uselessness.  All of 'em ramping up.  Storm of the century? 

You can either cross the ocean with your haul or you can sink.  But you gotta do the crossing. 

Aye.  Cross the ocean.

So you staying?  I'm so glad.  It'll be good for me.  And that I guess will be good for you too.