...or better yet, unfettered exhaustion.
I skipped posting last week (sorry!), but this last push to get my shit in storage and the house on the market has consumed my non-working hours. I am beat. Better yet, I feel like I have been pummeled by Mike Tyson, or Ray Rice, or Sean Penn, or <insert unhinged violent person's name here>. Both a physical (lifting and packing) and emotional (leaving my fireplace behind) beat down. Well, maybe a few teensy other feelings have crept up on me during this process. And I may, or may not, be training for a triathalon. The jury is out on that.
Good news is that I see the light at the end of the tunnel. Bad news is that a gauntlet of suckiness lies between me and it.
I am almost there. Almost.
His Heart by Mike Hughes
[More than ever, more than ever before, his heart, his heart, it SEARCHED some more]
One early morn, on a bright Fall day,
in the bean biting cold, she came his way.
A girl of spice, spinning yarns of France,
she took her chance, and put herself in play.
Pas ou cap pas, she asked inquisitively,
of course he was game, she was stunning to see.
But stunning to hear, were her magical thoughts,
jolting him like petawatts, smitten was he.
Thus it began, so sudden and unplanned,
she reached out to him, and he took her hand.
Let us go then, you and I, he would gently implore her,
held the door for her, and watched the outside world expand.
[More than ever, more than ever before, his heart, his heart, it BEAT some more]
One early morn, on a bright Winter day,
in the snow-covered streets, she came his way.
This girl of spice, spinning yarns so enticing,
no need for revising, no want to say nay.
Cozy fireplace inn rendezvous, drinking rich wine,
skivvies on the snowy porch, the cold not benign.
New Year’s Eve speakeasy, soft lips shooting sparks,
other wintertime larks, floating on cloud nine.
Learning the spice’s flavors, like never still water bubbling,
taste of bourbon to seal the deal, her reading love not troubling,
Canned tuna had no place, nor any type of pasta plated,
walks got her sated, and for bikes her joy forever doubling.
[More than ever, more than ever before, his heart, his heart, it GREW some more]
One early morn, on a bright Spring day,
in the light city breeze, he came her way.
A boy of bacon, wrapped tightly in foil,
traversed some thawed soil, meeting her to play.
Exploring musty bookshelves, in spaces destined for flames,
finding Havens Hiding Hovels, playing Mario’s games,
One full of eyesight, while the trusting other walking blind,
oblivious to mankind, melting into each other’s frames.
Yet it took Barbara to make love clear, with her big eyes and small face,
plus dirty dishing microwaves and stoves, a sensible resting place.
While lying on a balcony, overlooking a pleasant mountain,
like the parched man for a bubbler (or fountain), he yearned for her embrace.
[More than ever, more than ever before, his heart, his heart, it LIVED some more]
One early morn, on a bright Summer day,
under the soft, warm sun, he came her way.
A boy of cappuccinos, with flowery petals to share,
blissfully unaware, all too happy to be lead astray.
He was a bachelor of paradise, wading deep and deeper down,
tasting crustaceans with old bay spice, shoring on nature’s eastern lounge.
Fireworks exploding from the Death Star, escaping through the diamond song,
time ceasing to move along, the Lost Boy allowing himself to drown.
They amused themselves with black-tie parks, which both horrified and thrilled,
took beach trips with Diego and Rhodes, the ocean water fulfilled.
Travolta's grandpa on the Garden State, 'twas a sight to behold,
with lots more stories to be told, and a lifetime with which to build.
[More than ever, more than ever before, his heart, his heart, it LOVED some more]
One early morn, on a dark and dismal Fall day,
amidst the soul crushing shadow, she walked away.
A girl of spices, convinced of love's practical demise,
as to not to give reprise, disappeared into life’s fray.
No more morning meditations, nor le petite mort soaring,
no more lounging on his porch, nor her pleasant deep sleep snoring,
No more Jack White, nor the smell around her neck and hair,
oh, what despair! Of the head and heart factions warring.
No more trips to the unsleeping city, his surprising her while she speaks,
no more dressing up in costumes, nor teaching little boys boxing techniques.
No more dancing the silent disco, nor the the smile that shoots through his soul,
as her absence left him less than whole, with a wounded heart that Havoc wreaks.
[More than ever, more than ever before, his heart, his heart, it DIED some more]
One silent evening, against the crisping Winter air,
from the sadness deep in his chest, with a little hope to spare.
A boy of ukuleles, strumming lightly on a string,
softly began to sing, about how he never did care.
Did not care what they were doing, or with whom they did confer,
Did not care where they might be headed, or why they would deter.
Did not care when they planned on leaving, or if they were to stay,
Without hesitation he would say, he only cared about being with her.
So he sings of regrets he feels, of word choices or actions misplaced,
of learning from mistakes, and of the demons he has chased.
He sings about the hope for sunshine, pushing through the clouds like a flame,
but mostly sings of the shame, in letting their perfectly good heart go to waste.