Monday, February 2, 2015

I Will Tell You

You never asked me when I knew, how I knew, if I knew, but I will tell you anyway. I will tell you, right now, someday, today, because today is a good a time as any, because if I don't, the details of the memories will fade, and all I will be left with are the indistinct feelings of what once was, of tropical suns once seen. I will tell you because my heart is overflowing with high (perhaps on weed) words, incoherently assorted words, words, a plethora of them. I will tell you, when, how, if. I will tell you everything that you probably already know, already lived, already memorised. I will tell you with the same rawness, the same sense of urgency that took over me when I first touched your lips, not only because I did, but because you resuscitated the little girl inside who slept and dreamt and slept and dreamt and never really did much else. I will tell you how you did, when. Although I don't exactly remember when if I'm honest, just the how. Because the how is easy, the how is continuous, the how is everyday, the how is now, you in the kitchen cooking for us while I listen to Ray LaMontagne, or Ray The Mountain, as you so aptly nicknamed the poor chap. I will tell you, everything you need to hear, everything you need to know. I will tell you, someday, maybe even right now, today. I will tell you. Yes, yes, okay, alright, I will tell you. I just need to find the words first.