Revisions of Me

My Sometimes and Always

Sometimes i'm out: out of time, out of ideas, out of bold moves, opportunities, and chances to give. Out of ways to avoid facing that I'll get back less than I give. Out of you, carton empty with a neglected heart behind on rent. Fresh out of your scent, your taste. Denied the sight of you too long, with a well of longing never spent.

Sometimes I feel old, like trees twisted round on themselves like wizened fingers and knuckles with roots refusing to lay down. Old like pan-flash, black and white photos leaching the nuance to portray only the moments bones. Old like I've forgotten you, but therein is the lie I tell to get to sleep. I imagine i'm forgetful, but dream of you like you're the one I pray to.

Sometimes everything is going right, the world is moving as I please, and even when it rains or the sun shines it feels like it was raining or shining just for me. It'll be coming up all me, but I still can't stop the itch. You're the narcotic and my dealer, that give my eyes a naked quivering fix. The world at my feet and all I can remember is your smile, your touch, the withdrawals making me sick.

No matter the sometimes, It's the always that is my DNA, the scripture in my blood and bone. My broken looking nose, my tracery of red hairs lost in a wash of brown soon to be gray, the line of my hungering lips and the swirls on finger tips and palms, like human astrology that again yearns to embrace your theology. Injected into the testament of me, like a side-effect of a drug, that "may alter your DNA", you intrude and people can no longer tell the story of me without you. You're the Lucy, the missing link, to my modern man.

You're my sometimes and always. Sometimes loved, sometimes kissed, and sometimes my everything, but when you're not here you're my always, always missed.