I Promises Not To Make Promises, If That's What You Mean

I've tried writing you your own story, but the words seem to be disappearing tonight. It's not their fault, when they get lost in the music.

And I've been lost in the music before, too - the music of your body. But it got too loud and then I remembered there had to be a reason for tomorrow. There are no reasons,
Only excuses.

You hear the whole notes, the half notes, the eighth and sixteenth notes. Then you hear the bass pounding directly with your heart, and then the high sopranos and middle altos. They mix together to make a tune that you hear inside your head; it's tickling your senses and you feel it in your heart. That's love, in a nut shell, if you will.

And now, I've lost that love and said goodbye to the reasons we had in the first place, when empathy was on our sides. And somewhere, I got lost in the past where you are.

My mother would be so disappointed when I told her I'd forgotten what she said, "the past is the past and the future is another gray area. And let me tell you, hunny, it's an even uglier gray when you connect the two."

So you wrote a new story to last on my heart; "I promise forever." That day - when writing was easy and I could taste your lips upon my pen - everything just made more sense. And that grey day you wrote on my heart, I forgot to tell you, I wrote on it too:

"dear heart,
I'm sorry you're always hurt --
But, I'm in love."

And you should have heard my heart's displeasure, but what am I to do when falling in love? It's a trick of the heart, not the mind; I had no control. My eyes are burning and my throat's getting scratchy, just listening to the memories in my head. I promise not to make promises, if that's what you mean.

The world is laughing; I'm starting to get bitter at how it laughs every time I try to make a new statement of myself. Bitter with the thought that made it as a right to laugh at all the mistakes I've made. Bitter that I had forgotten I couldn't write music, only words. I was lost in your art, not mine. And I'd almost forgotten what my art was all about - the pen, the paper, the ink, the white. Your arts about love. Mine? When you asked me what mine was about all I could do was write your story. And then I remembered saying, "I promise not to make promises, if that's what you mean.
I can't do this alone."