Paint You a Picture.
Nature blew me a whirlwind that couldn't be ignored; the laughter was too infectious, the smile will melt diamonds. And those eyes. In a capricious moment I wondered, without thinking asked, it’ll be fun and for a second there was no reality. But then of course, there was.
During conversation about everything and nothing she reveals “I've never been in love” and I want to embrace that feeling and the joy it will bring.
And so I'm bought back here. To the comments left with a grin leading to the mail, proper mail on paper, signed with love and the calls that glowed with passion. Passion doesn't always make you do the right thing but it will always make you do something.
“Phil, don’t think, I’ll be at Heathrow in 48 hours” and so I don't think, I hoover and I buy fruit for the bowl so that she won't think I'm a savage. I get to the airport hours too early and fidget with my coffee, unable to have a cigarette in case I miss her. I look at every face until I see hers and she smiles… And I melt. Then I think. I think what is this? We talk, a little forced, then friendly and finally like lovers.
Walking through Datchet, from a doctor’s appointment I couldn't miss, we pass the pub which she has to go into as she’s American and has only before seen pictures of a building that old. It’s familiar to me so I relax. I absorb her looks, watch her take in every detail.
We return home and eat cheese and avocado on the floor. She laughs at Have I Got News for You? pretending maybe, that she gets the nuanced humour. Another smile, this one with an edge and... must I paint you a picture?
Only love can make you feel like that.
In the morning, the sun shines, gilding the frame around our picture. In Windsor she doesn't want to go to the castle as she knows I'm a republican and it makes her laugh because at home a Republican loves George Bush and it was the barbs I aimed him which bought her to me.
In London we sing The Kinks’ Waterloo Sunset to each other as the train pulls in and we ignore the embarrassed stares but notice smiles.
Only love can make you feel like that.
At the National we find The Haywain and though she's looked at it countless times, she's never seen it before. She's an artist and she cries at the depth, the brush strokes, the layers. And I watch her face with an equal emotion.
At Heathrow again, we cannot speak, we just hold each other and wish that time was meaningless and that we could stop it there.
I see her three more times and then it's over. I have to end it and it destroys me. Because only love can make you feel like that too.
I can listen to this again and smile now.
Because pain always heals and love is never lost.
During conversation about everything and nothing she reveals “I've never been in love” and I want to embrace that feeling and the joy it will bring.
And so I'm bought back here. To the comments left with a grin leading to the mail, proper mail on paper, signed with love and the calls that glowed with passion. Passion doesn't always make you do the right thing but it will always make you do something.
“Phil, don’t think, I’ll be at Heathrow in 48 hours” and so I don't think, I hoover and I buy fruit for the bowl so that she won't think I'm a savage. I get to the airport hours too early and fidget with my coffee, unable to have a cigarette in case I miss her. I look at every face until I see hers and she smiles… And I melt. Then I think. I think what is this? We talk, a little forced, then friendly and finally like lovers.
Walking through Datchet, from a doctor’s appointment I couldn't miss, we pass the pub which she has to go into as she’s American and has only before seen pictures of a building that old. It’s familiar to me so I relax. I absorb her looks, watch her take in every detail.
We return home and eat cheese and avocado on the floor. She laughs at Have I Got News for You? pretending maybe, that she gets the nuanced humour. Another smile, this one with an edge and... must I paint you a picture?
Only love can make you feel like that.
In the morning, the sun shines, gilding the frame around our picture. In Windsor she doesn't want to go to the castle as she knows I'm a republican and it makes her laugh because at home a Republican loves George Bush and it was the barbs I aimed him which bought her to me.
In London we sing The Kinks’ Waterloo Sunset to each other as the train pulls in and we ignore the embarrassed stares but notice smiles.
Only love can make you feel like that.
At the National we find The Haywain and though she's looked at it countless times, she's never seen it before. She's an artist and she cries at the depth, the brush strokes, the layers. And I watch her face with an equal emotion.
At Heathrow again, we cannot speak, we just hold each other and wish that time was meaningless and that we could stop it there.
I see her three more times and then it's over. I have to end it and it destroys me. Because only love can make you feel like that too.
I can listen to this again and smile now.
Because pain always heals and love is never lost.
posted by phylos @ 19:03
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