Once,
on the river front,
in the dark,
where I liked to be,
he came.
I waited for him
there,
so,
I suppose
you could say,
it
wasn't
some great
moment.
As if it was
fate.
Ah,
but
that's just
what
it was,
tho.
Wasn't it.
His face
above me.
His eyes looking
at me,
that.......
deep breath
he would
make,
that sound.
And so
I breathed
a sigh of relief,
or would,
if I could.
If I could feel
air in my
lungs,
instead of water
rushing
into
them.
You see,
the stage,
it had a habit
of running late,
of
being predictable,
only
in it's ability
to
piss me off.
It ran fast,
& it ran slow,
only enough so
my plans
were only that.
Plans,
& not what
I could rely
on.
And yes,
I DO see the
irony
here.
The subtle
transference,
deflecting.
Pot calling the
kettle
black,
type of
defining someone else,
by
my own
shortcomings,
kind of
thing.
kind of
thing.
But,
I thought I knew
better,
didn't I.
didn't I.
That I could
be close,
be close enough.
So
So
that I could
stop it.
Stop
the
only thing
that
COULD
happen,
that night.
that
COULD
happen,
that night.
Yes,
I know.
I've heard it all
before this.
The explanations.
The logical
reasons.
That faith,
predictions,
premonitions.
They don't work,
they don't exist.
They. Are. Not.
Real.
Fine.
Then tell me why,
then.
Tell me why,
I saw him there
that night.
Why
the winds blow
in that direction,
why
I see him,
outside my balcony
windows,
on the dirt
street
below.
Why I know,
he will
always
be
there.
I could tell you
why.
But that's
another story,
isn't it.
But,
like Sara used
to tell me,
the beginning,
or the
end,
all depends
on,
who's telling
the story...
