Tomorrowing

So I’m look­ing before I leap, before I strike, before I dive. This is one of those even­ings where I feel as if I’m about to go down in his­tory like a lead-weighted grand piano, down to this Devil-forsaken town. Hold my hand as we take to these litter-strewn streets together.

The way you speak to me, everything rhymes in cer­tain degrees, at cer­tain times and tan­gents. Some­times it can be noth­ing more than a faintly pulled breath. Some­times noth­ing more than the faintest of over­heard smiles. No one else gets the obscure ref­er­ences. Such a fact makes me jeal­ously glad, because as much as I want to tell every­one about everything in every last detail, I rel­ish the self-storage of secrets much more.

Fran­coise is singing about so many things, each of them with a stud­ied Gal­lic cool and an even more stud­ied Gauloises cigar­ette poised in the fin­ger­tips of her right hand. Beau­ti­ful, but almost empty. Her words go in one ear and out the the other, as you provide the far greater mean­ing by sleep­ing softly some­where between them.

Tomor­row, then? Yes, tomorrow.