Down Slow

Down Slow is playing in my head. Carina Round. We used to be neighbors on Wilcox Avenue. Different planet, different world. Now I am walking these grey streets and the morning is dawning. Boy, you can get used to everything closing at 2 AM, but there is something special about the early early morning hours after a long doubtful night.
I remember staring at the tree leaves illuminated by some street lights, feeling so calm inside that it was almost scary. Like a storm before the big run.
Where have I been hiding so long from my own thoughts?
I remember everything so clearly now.
Why did I let any of this happen to me?
How come I never walked away just like that before tonight?
There is no reason to have patience with ridiculous behavior.
What is it in me that makes me wanna deal with it?
What in the world is wrong with me???
The difference in my reaction didn't go unnoticed. I saw him be puzzled, try to manipulate, fail, try harder, try to make amends. Wow, it's all up to me, isn't it. The power of my actions spoke loud and clearly. The calm inside turning into the eye of a storm that ravaged his gardens of conceit.
It was so easy to remain there, strong in my newfound position that walking into the dawn when we finally parted almost frustrated me.
Where have I been for so long?
What kind of games have I been playing?
Who but myself can take me serious?
I grew stronger in the morning light, more determined and clearminded. I felt the urge to go and talk to my sweetheart of another world, another life, but I just kept walking instead. Seeing the dead walking the streets. The pale faces, the shadowy eyes, the empty looks. People who would be on the street if it wasn't for the well fare system. Who head straight to the next dive bar. Who are puzzled when you smile at them. Questions of my own direction muddled with the razor sharp cries paved into the streets laid out in front of my eyes : politicians filling their lives with meaning by fighting for change for the people they can't see anymore from behind the tinted limousine windows. Teachers who fight for one soul at a time, people who try to survive a day at a time. Businessmen keeping their minds busy with dusty acts that have an expiration date on them. Artists who try to find meaning in what they do. And how it is all revolving and revolving around the same stories. How nothing ever really changes. How, in the end of the day, it actually is the love that matters in our life.
Passing an old church I am almost at the point to let the thunderclouds rain on me.
Either you just live a simple life and let the things speak to you or you need some sort of spirituality in your life to survive this. Or so it feels to me at this point.
Nothing makes really sense to me otherwise. It can't be so absurd really. It can't be so hard. So sad.So fucking redundant.
I want to talk to you and talk of angels I knew. I want to touch your soul again and let the feathers of your wings stroke my pumping heart. I want to reverse past injuries and let the sun shine on them. I want you to grow strong.

But then I am home and watch her sleep like you used to do with me.
My newfound position and strength to walk away pulsing underneath my breath. The sweetness of her sleep. So peaceful. So good to grant our body that rest. Her early morning stories as incoherent and random as mine probably. How she falls back to sleep after the soft spoken slumbered words.
And the music takes me back to where hurt is and where I could have walked away. When I didn't - and still, I am here now. Driven far. Finding new ground under my feet. Mourning a love, a life, a world beyond my hearts comprehension.

Down slow, fall.