mood indigo, 1997
muted music floating up from the room below
dancing, swaying, tipsy together across this creaky floor,
and you, whispering tasty lies, nibbling my ear,
tellling me all those things every wide-eyed girl
in her best blue dress yearns to hear.
Should I be astonished, or pleased, or just “well, of course,” about having written the same thing, essentially, twenty years apart, one from the point of view of a young woman, the other (directly below this post, click the arrow on the bottom left) an external view of someone clearly much older? Yeah, I’m all the ages I’ve ever been, still here, still me, so all of the above, I guess.
What I’m wrestling with, though, is the writing of two people each waltzing to the music that floats up from below, but they are on opposite sides of the wall. I can see the whole thing pretty well, but the telling of it might require a gift I have not received. Still, I persist for now. And while I continue to mull it over, I’m going to work on a new sonnet.