When I see someone standing there with the
same dirty blonde hair I go mad. When I
see someone standing there with the same wisps
of blonde hair falling haphazardly down
around her ears I go mad. When I see
her brown eyes and they glance up into mine
I try not to stare, but I can't help it,
I can't help it. Whatever my brain knows
remains unintelligible private
argot to my simple heart. When I see
someone standing there with the same smile on
her faint pink lips I go mad. I don't know
why you don't know here's where you belong. When
I don't hear from you it's all I can do
to struggle and hold onto my place in
this grim, melancholic world. Everywhere
I turn your sweet brown eyes are looking back
into mine, driving me mad, and I can't
help it, I can't help it. Why aren't you here?
This piece is both amusing and profoundly true. The heart has its own idiomatic vocabulary, its own world governed by a different set of rules. The description renders the woman either bland or even somewhat disgusting and yet the fickle heart begs to differ. So typical.
ReplyDelete