Tuesday, 9 August 2011

No colors anymore.

I see a line of cars and they're all painted black
With flowers and my love, both never to come back
I see people turn their heads and quickly look away
Like a newborn baby it just happens every day

No more will my green sea go turn a deeper blue
I could not foresee this thing happening to you
If I look hard enough into the setting sun
My love will laugh with me before the morning comes
Leisurely mornings, now. Ben's schedule has altered once again so that we wake up at six and play for the better part of the first hour of the day, held tightly in each other's arms, rocked through the sunrise and into the morning, proper. He puts his hand over my mouth and I won't make a sound, and he leaves me wanting for nothing before turning me out of the sheets and into my day, a good twelve hours before I can return to his arms like a slow-motion boomerang girl, bent in just the right places, met and scrubbed clean in the hot water before returning to the sheets in the dark. Days are long and as usual he is the last one in through the front door at night.

Late in the evenings Ben returns, his slow grin hiding behind the day's fatigue. Happy to see me. Happy to be home. We usually have a quiet dinner alone together in the kitchen. I wait and cook for the two of us after everyone else has eaten and drifted off to evening pursuits around the house and grounds. We tell each other about our days and then he goes to see the others while I finish cleaning up the kitchen and get the children tucked into their beds to read until ten or shortly before. If he makes it back before I am finished he'll pick up his guitar and play for me while I hurry around the kitchen and then just as quickly I pull it all together and then he replaces the guitar in the case and holds his arms out wide, pulling me into them, where I stay for the remainder of the dark.