poetry – As I was saying…

I guess I never really understood the power of music.
Music meaning the sum total of meter, rhythm, melody, lyrics, instruments, vocals.
Every note a new heart stopping vibration touching the sinews of my soul.
Intention, motivation, desire wrapped around, into and through a simple lyric.
The soul of a cello, the siren song of a flute, the silence between the notes full of anticipation and fulfillment.
The hum of my computer hard drive, powering up when I send some “e”.
iTunes playing the latest in my “you’ve got to listen to this!” list.
Movement in the air from the Vornado on the far side of the room adding not just background noise, but ambience to every sound, thought, feeling.

My desk vibrates with the pounding subwoofer found lying on the floor, its base elements beating in my chest.
Keyboards and fingers, drumsticks and guitars, symbols, congas, altos and bases, long soul-full moans and tight fisted high notes.
It may be all in the mix, but for me it is a singular driving force that makes me think of you.

Melody.
The essence of the lyrics, and I can’t escape the emotion of wanting you more than ever before.
Closing my eyes only enhances the desire.

I can’t sleep because I dream of you.
I can’t eat because I’m not with you.
I can’t work because I find myself wanting to be with you.
The hours drag by until I can see you smiling at me again.

So what do I do?
I put another quarter in the Jukebox.

Swept away into a mystical far away place and suddenly we are … together.
Do you know what time it is?

It’s time to put another quarter in… the Jukebox.

Hands were meant for holding it seems, and long have been the standard for acceptable public displays of affection… holding hands.

Walking down the street.

Heading into the restaurant.

Watching the movie.

Waiting for your meal to be delivered to your table.

All these times of holding hands are special and wonderful events of simple love.

When observed from a nearby viewer who has no hand to hold, it could bring sadness or hope, but the hand-holders wouldn’t know.

But when we get back home.

When we are alone on the sofa.

Watching that favorite show, or movie, or listening to the Piano music on Spotify, that most intimate of times has arrived.

The time for holding toes.

You have beautiful toes.

I’ve said it many times, and it’s clear it may embarrass you, but the fact remains, I love those toes.

When your neuropathy is overwhelming and I rub your feet, I pay attention to those toes.

When I’m pursuing your love, when I want to make it ultimately clear just how much I love you, I kiss those toes.

The amazing thing about toes is how important they are to how we move.

Dancing. Posture. Balance. Walking, running, jumping. All dependent on the toes.

I love watching you dance.

I love watching you walk, to me… and away from me.

I love how you glide across a room like a perfectly balanced high-wire tight-rope walker.

It makes my soul want to walk with you on the not-so-beaten path and see what none has seen before.

It makes my heart jump like the silly frog leaping from pad to pad in the pond.

It makes me want to run to you again and again and again.

I’ve said it over and over, until I’m sure you must tire of hearing it, but once again… I love your toes.

When we’re laughing, when we’re crying, watching that favorite show, when the lights around the pool have waned to just a faint glow… it is the touch of your toe that I crave.

That one last touch at night before I go off to sleep, that first hello as morning breaks again, it is the touch of your toe that I crave.

For me, forever, it will be… about… touching toes.

Category: poetry

Jukebox

Holding Toes