Lovely

The One

Me thinks he might be the One.
He tells me I am.
(Of course I am)
‘I am One’ I wrote long long ago while
walking around, kicking up the past and
milling around hopelessly
And we meet many along this tattered path to somewhere strewn with ambiguous love; the ' Do I Don’t I' Scenario.
We wonder with aimless bewilderment;
"Does she love me as much as I love her?"
"Is he thinking of me as I am thinking of him?"
And
"do we understand each other? "
i.e.
Do they ‘get me’?

If we think this, more often than not, it simply becomes a self-fulfilling prophecy, if we must question it, we don’t truly believe it, if we don’t wholeheartedly believe in it, ultimately:
It is, and always will be:

Just not ‘Right’

I don’t feel like this anymore. I don’t have reservations about my own despair, or his despair, I don’t think him unreasonable, unfathomable, unsympathetic. I don’t think him anything I would not think of myself.
Is he the One?

Fucking hell, I butter my toast with Branston Pickle
Its a pretty good indication.

© Marjorie Razorblade

As Clouds Go By
The click of the pavement
and my heels on asphalt cloudy
day 9 Celsius stormy weather
on the way
looking out of a broken sash
window pane repaired in 1980
by a man glazing above window boxes in the rain
onwards to the sea of indigo as a newspaper
blows by on a current of warm tropical jet plane
fuselage searing heat and
women shake sheets
and children break moves
on skateboards on the street
the yellow dresses swirling the white ford
Orions swinging green Christmas trees in rear view mirrors on
the past as babies laugh in back seat high chairs
with rattles of blue and heart shaped safety harnesses
that watches them sleep soundly as life flashes a second out as the pavement clicking with heels on asphalt.

Cloudy day

9 Celcius.

© Marjorie Razorblade 2006