December 3, 2004

For Wendy. Always.

I was just thinking. No, not thinking. Feeling. Which at times is better than thinking. It's certainly different. But it's most fun to feel and think simultaneously. I think.

I have never considered myself a hopeless romantic or anything even close to resembling a romantic at all. Perhaps at times yes. Yet fumblingly so. So I seek safety in words others have written. My own rarely unfumble me.

I'm feeling that. Romantic. Not sex-romantic, but heart-romantic. Which can lead to sex-romantic. Or not. Whatever feels right. Instinctively, I fumble around to grab on to words others have written.

"Baby where's that place where time stands still?
I remember like a lover can,
But I forget it like a leaver will.
It's no place you can get to by yourself.
You've got to love someone and they love you.
Time will stop for nothing else...

It's the first time that you held my hand.
It's the smell and the taste and the fear and the thrill.
It's everything I understand.
And all the things I never will..."

"Where Time Stands Still"
Mary Chapin Carpenter

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