Letter, Message, Note to Self.
Ask me why, how, or for what purpose these words are set down, and I will not have a clue.
Sitting here in my study, I wonder to whom it is I’m writing? I’m not even sure if it is a letter, a message, a note to remind myself. That’s how I am sometimes, as long as words appear on this screen, and I’m not exerting anything but love, then, maybe, that’s the purpose these words will have.
One day I’ll find an island, a think place, go there with a mess of songs from my past, take some long walks, leave the bed unmade and place words in spaces that kisses might otherwise have filled.
Older now, looking out over the waves, coming in shallow and shouldered in linen, I never think to turn inland. What does a songwriter, knowing the bravery of love, write for those of us who lie alone at night? A prayer, that whoever you are waiting for comes soon and brings along a pocketful of stars to scatter along your night’s long path?
I don’t move from the shoreline, because anyone who knows me, knows where I’ll be.
Tell me you’re looking for me…find a way…please, before September.
More From Harry:
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