-1

Spin me round again, and rub my eyes.

This can't be happening.

When streets a mess people,

would stop to hold their heads--heavy.

Hide and seek--trains and sewing machines;

oh, you won't catch me around here.

Blood and tears (hearts)

Mm, whatcha say?

You only meant well?

Well, of course you did.

Mm, whatcha say?

That's it's all for the best?

Of course it is.

Mm, whatcha say?

That it's just what we need?

/You/ decided this.

Random notes keep falling

out of your mouth.

Mild-sweet talk, newspaper cutouts.

Speak, no, feeling, no.

I don't believe you.

You don't care a bit.

You don't care a bit.

You don't care a bit.

-Lyrics taken from 'Hide and Seek--Imogen Heap.

...Somewhere right along here is where I lost you. Not sure when. Days ago? Months ago? Years ago, I think. I guess I knew. I tried to keep you close, as if keeping you close physically by my side would keep you from slipping away from me. Somewhere, between 'hello' and 'goodbye' you lost /yourself./ Somewhere between summer laughter and autumn tears, devotion wasn't enough.

'Off to find myself,' you said. 'Are you lost?' I wanted to ask. But I just smiled. 'I'll wait for you,' I said. That was years ago. I'm still sitting here. Still waiting. Every now and then I see you outside my door. Hands in your pockets, breath pouring out in some silver vapor. And I open the door. 'Come in,' I say. 'It's cold.' 'I can't stay,' you answer.

So you stand in the brief, brilliant golden glow of the porch lamp, and it begins to snow. 'It's beautiful,' I say. 'What?' 'The snow.' You shake your head, scuff a foot in the soft, silvery whispers of the snow. You laugh, hollow and nervous. 'It's not the season for snow. It's rain.'

...When did my silver circlet of perfect fairy dust turn into something like rain to you? 'When did you...?' 'When did I...?' When did you stop believing in magic? I want to ask. When did 'us' become 'you' by some clever, devious means?

'Come in.' The snow is melting into thin strands of silver--eaten alive by the rain. Threadbare and ugly--the spilled pearls scattering in a thousand directions from the broken strands of a necklace shattered by the greedy grip of a petulant child in the midst of a tantrum.

'You're always welcome.' 'I have to go.' 'Hello?' No. Not hello. The hour for hello has vanished in the white-wash of the years. Not hello, then. 'Goodbye.' You nod, smile once, faintly, draw up the collar of your coat, and march off after your shadow to find yourself.

And even though I close the door, it's still raining. And even though the door is closed, the porch light is still on. Just in case.