the mystery of hours

she stared lofty and wild-eyed at the sky sometimes, at least she did the way i thought about it. i wrote "london", when she was in london, and soon, there were pages worth of things thought about, said stated and somehow, they all made sense to me and it was almost enough to keep a man awake at night and some nights, it did.

i didn't mind the being awake or the imagining of dark thigh-shadows or arches in the back or exhales at that certain pace that says something in particular about the moisture content of the room, and maybe i even liked thinking about it, but now it's all rounded out and strangely worded, pages added to the mystery running around and oh, how my head spins i'm pulling you onto the sheets in my head, i suppose you know where you want to be and you're there right now, and i'm humming lightly, the light int he early dawn office newspaper ont he desk and cup of coffee, cup of coffee black today and flipping the pages and maybe, at least halfway, thinking about you.

2003-07-28 | 8:26 a.m.
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