Conversation

Conversation...

I told myself that this was the best that I could ask for

Simple conversation

Yet my words are anything but simple . Meandering metaphor attempting to weave coherent conscious thought , all as I’m lost in the allure of this moment between us. Words flood my mind and fail my intentions, increasing apprehension.

I lose myself in the infinite dimensions glimpsed through the windows of her eyes. It seems that her smile is the only thing that can pull me from my solitude. Her voice, a gentle breeze that keeps me aloft. Yet, I fear getting too close for my wings are but wax and her soul is the sun.

But, still... I hope for conversation

Words tracing existence like fingers tracing a lover’s body. Each touch unlocking doors unseen but waiting to be opened. I long to breathe in the space between dawning sun and burning stars.

Hers is a modest beauty. Silent fingers trailing through coffee brown hair. Soft, tight-lipped glances conceal a smile that can make you forget your worries. What kind of spirit hides behind those eyes? In her voice, words frolic like fingers across a piano. There is gentle rocking and swaying , telling the tale of a soul wanting to be set free . To dance unbridled across the wind. Like the whole of the world is but a song ... written for her ... waiting for her to take her first steps. I am tempted to offer my hand but don’t , fearing that it will only impede her catharsis ... a two-step to her tango ... a waltz to her swing.

So I stick to conversation .

And with a few words she silences my worries. She tells me, "stay there." She says that if the world is a song and she is the dancer , then the only other thing she needs is a backdrop for her stage.

You see, she says she likes the way I paint. Painting verbal visuals that intoxicate her senses . She asks that I let my voice be the brush that coats the canvas her mind.

She says she likes the way I paint words into colors of existence. I confess to her that I am only allowing my restless mind to wander , taking time to vent before the boiler of thought overflows . She silences me again. She claims that my words are a journey through life’s art gallery.

And then... she asks me to write her a poem.

I am conflicted over how I’ve grown numb to such requests. Yet, I would paint her. I would paint her in jazz-fusion. Paint myself in blues rock. Some would say we clash but, nah... together we’re funk! We vibe like reggae. We are a classical composition wrapped in modern melodies. A not so subtle serenade heralding watercolor days and starry nights.

Carried along in the rhythm, and the hues, of simple... conversation.

-Northstar

Marshall Pampkin, II