I keep wondering if (a hundred and three years ago) I shouldn't have paid a bit more attention to what your ballads were Actually About, instead of crossing my fingers in my jacket pocket and listening for my name spelled out in secret code.
Perhaps I would have realized (before it started getting cold) your tendency to only love what's left you, To only pine for what doesn't want you, To only cry over milk long past spilt.
If I had paid attention (back when attention was all I had), I would have seen that the only way to get you whole was to pick up all my light brite pegs and get the hell out of Dodge. The more of your love desired, the harder to slam the door.
And this particular realization (a hundred and three years later) was a tremendous, overwhelming relief.
Posted by Sonya at April 13, 2004 05:02 PMSpilt milk is always the sweetest. Or, it would've been, if only.....
Such is the stuff of all good ballads.
Posted by: flamingbanjo at April 13, 2004 05:48 PMOne Hundred And Three Years Ago
sounds like a ballad title to me.
loved this post
Posted by: Gin at April 14, 2004 06:39 AMfucking exactly.
Posted by: sue at April 18, 2004 09:18 PM