Second Thoughts

Correct that. I thought the obsession was over. It probably is, but I’m not sure I can handle this. Dreams. More dreams. Can’t even remember the details, only know that I woke up crying his name out as though I’d walked away from a priceless gift, realized what I had done and forgotten my way back – he’d disappeared in the gloom. I’ve still managed to keep the headphones off, but I’m feeling nauseous.

Hey, Twenty-Nine

Something is wrong. This dead silence deafens. It hurts.
Why should it hurt – clear-sightedness shouldn’t pain me
and yet it does. A voice speaks. "You’re a ninny," she
says. "You threw out the baby with the bath water.
Or the bathwater with the baby, the reverse,
in your case. Why would you also throw out the key
to your peace of mind? If his voice soothes you, if he
brings you solace, why push him away as though cursed?

If you gain strength from his voice, by all means don’t frown
on listening, and celebrate it with pleasure.
Look for happiness and peace in equal measure
with disciplined restraint and calm; do not look down
your nose at your own weakness; just let us ensure
that you manage not to cling to him while you drown."

24JUN2012

©Snake’s Trail, 2012. All rights reserved

Back to the booze. I’ve stayed away from the music, on this day, his nineteenth birthday, but am planning to tune in to Italy v. England at 2 pm, since I would have done that anyway, long before I ever heard of Il Volo – if I’m supposed to tune out the European football quarter-finals just because Piero Barone is Italian and I’m trying to end my obsession with Piero Barone, think again.

Forza Italia!