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grown man cry
He was standing in that bitterness, as if there wasn’t a world full of hearts, beating their fears, heaving our words inside their chests..
When he was young it was always something to do with understanding, always about the brush, or the hands, the strings and it came easy seeing what they wanted to say..what they were saying. This is why a chord built like a highway is still a stairway.. this is why a perspective is both vertical and seated..
When I was young I held those dancers and walked along side the frozen pond under the university..it was always something to do with fathers and I never wanted to go home..perhaps that’s the story..maybe I’m the story. But my mother was happy after all..she loved once and even if that meant I became all of this that love is what pushes me to believe that belief and knowing are synonymous with loving..
And they never said a word that we could hear.
And there was never a day that I swore to their lie.
Because they didn’t fold under the stress.. and she sent him for me..
And he came because they knew better than to die without that thing…that thing like burning eyes and shivering hands..
It is how we love..we give and we turn and our eyes meet under the auspice of gift giving.. all of this as the refrain is built like a house and the chorus is a flattened hat. All of this running down my face .. is how we love
