It don't matter who loves who. Either you love me or I love you.
So what. Let's beat it with a shoe. Because love can't talk. Love can't
explain why or how or when it's through.
As a stranger I write, as an ordinary woman I write for every ordinary
woman. I write down what thousands feel. As the moon stretches its
limber limbs, as the hibiscus' spread their yellow tongues and red lips.
As the night comes falling from the sky.
Try to see this as Monet would. Open, balanced in motion, but open.
And so the light stacks up. The stars express themselves. The moon
coelesces into something beautiful. Unity with the sky. And the night
I lose myself in bony thought. I turn myself into a single drop of
blood, holding in my palm the smallest berry. The smallest berry to
place on your tongue, like freedom like smoke like a whisper, who cares where it goes.
Love is like a berry, bright and immediate. Then again the anchor of
stability, the twenty two of forty four, the eleven eleven. Red of
propriety, of indulgence.
I am drawn and God only knows what draws me.
© 2007 Lisa Zaran
Originally appeared at: DearBobDylan.com