Shadow Dreams


I do not see you

Though I have tried.

Yesterday, I went with Ourane

To smell perfumes.

I kept harping on Chanel #5,

Boasting about its nuances.

“It has layers,” I told her and the clerk.

But, we surmised when I actually smelled it again,

That it was passé.

I still loved Egoiste,

But then we smelled every

Jo Malone, but not before

I got to smell perfume on Ourane.

Her arms are slender.

I held one.

It was warm.

Plus, it had many scents.

It’s really nothing though.

She and I are friends.

We talk about her lovers.

And that long journey she is taking

To find “The One.”

She wants a child;

Her clock is ticking.

I feel for her.

I really do.

She is like a deer,

Runs for hours uphill.

Who can do that?

She claims to have a big heart,

“Which is dangerous,” she said.

I’ll say.

My heart lumbers through the afternoon and evening

Reaching out to passing strangers.

It uses its quiet voice.

With telepathic staging.

I am listening to music I have written and recorded.

It’s tender.

I get lost and disappear.

My friend Ourane too says that she goes deep into herself

When she listens to it,

Which is quite a compliment

For someone who wears Egoiste.

(I am talking about me, not her.)

She wears or wore Happy,

Which pretty much explains her.

She is the delight of energy,

A positive flow, non-stop and enchanting.

Her smile is a flame.

The kind that warms you,

Not like forest fires or Halloween.

There’s no trick, only treat.

You call his breath a “whim.”

And you try to steal it.

But, apparently it does not matter.

It’s like frivolity to him.

Or an unconscious undertaking.

How do you see him breathing?

Are you in the middle states?

Has the weather changed?

I hear you.

I am sure he does too.

But, if you are doubting it,

I bet he takes you for granted.

I hear you breathing,

And I don’t even know where you are.

Anyway, I like to think that I play like Yo-Yo Ma

When he does the Cello and Bach.

I too am alone like he is

On the stage.

I am playing the piano.

Little fingerings.

I barely touch the keys.

I want to drink absinthe someday,

And pretend I am famous.

I want that yearning you project.

I know it’s completely absurd.

But, Ourane says I play like Keith Jarrett.

I told her I have always looked up to him.

“He plays for hours,” I told her.

“Just him and the piano.”

He plays work, like that of Mozart,

But I simply play what comes to me,

And I can do it for hours, days, and years, I suspect.

Today, for example, I wrote and recorded about 10 songs,

38 minutes, and 45 minutes yesterday.

I tell you I am on the cusp.

I have to be alone and without any distractions,

Nothing to make me nervous.

I get in the “groove,” I told the audience

At Freight and Salvage.

My hands have to be soft,

Because my fingers stick otherwise.

Sometimes, I will put myself to sleep.

I have listened to music my entire life.

First, my mother took me to the symphony.

I was very young.

People probably wondered if I was going

To cause a fuss.

Instead, I was speechless,

Completely absorbed.

I don’t think I said a word to her.

I must have shown fascination with my eyes.

I still think of her, my run-way model mother,

The red velvet carpet and seats.

I am pretty sure she wore a long black cocktail dress.

Her hair was up and she had long black gloves.

My mother used to date a famous handsome Mayor

Of San Francisco before she met my dad, the doctor.

She did her own thing.

Anyway: “Do you hear me being here?”

I am somewhere near you and breathing too.

Every word you say.

I try to touch and keep;

Obviously, I am not being discreet.

I have no time for that nor decorum.

I believe in the truth of the heart,

To tremble in the shadows.

I lie to myself.

I like to think that if

I pay attention,

You will see.

I make a world for us.

I dream of shadows.

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