A little place on love street

This one came from a little place on love street where we danced in the Maya slip of our dreams...

Image by Soorelis from Pixabay

A Little place on love street where the bars were always open was all I could find. It came with a crazy woman who kept me awake at nights with her dancing as if she was afraid to go to sleep.
I was just another man in her bed, some poor poet writer for her dreams, to be kept awake at night, and a poor substitute for the real thing. But that was okay with me, I could handle that, for the moon shone through the open window more often than not, and the sheets were always soft as the down of dreams.
My kind of place really, a place of dreams, where we could raise our hearts free and shake our destiny between us to see what we could find any which way at all.
Yes, it was a nice little place, perky even, and it even had neon kissing the windows long into the night like a salute to the glorious dead who were coming alive again after so so long it was impossible to say anymore what had enrolled them to their defeat.
Oh, we were a pair, acid tripping in the poetry nights where we jumped on every table and did a jig until they threw us out for being a little bit too eccentric for their tastes. Yeah, stuff like that.
In the end we were banned from everywhere and called: the deadly duo, and became quite famous for a while in that area of town and much talked of to boot, until we lost our crown and were forgotten about, which is when we went back home.
And then our fame waned when we began to slide into different spaces where we’d meet hardly at all in all the come downs so that we grew lazy and stared out of the window a lot.
I tell you, I loved that little place, it was my spaghetti space where I was the rolling ball come to rest and she was my secret agent.
But all things have a wrecking ball where dreams are blown and the devil hisses in your face to freak or not about it until you find there are many corners, but only one that you can move on from
And when that corner came I moved out like some Samaritan looking for his way home and went on my way to look for another little place to find myself dying from place to place in the heavenly platitudes of hell where I found myself.
The next time I called her she had moved out too and was living somewhere else it seemed and why don’t I come over to spread the cost and feel the love.
Sure I said. Got any wine?
Bring a bottle or two and come soon she said.
I ran for my wallet and keys and looked around for my footwear as I made my way to her knowing this was one time I was not going to give up on, not if she was calling me again.
In our many places of meeting where we came across ourselves meeting and banging our drums raw we found ourselves until we couldn’t find anything else.
This was the way we lived in our living where we were flying away all the time to be where we were coming from, a shoulder to cry on and a hard luck story to tell around the table at night with wine and food and the darkness dispelled for a while longer by candlelight.
We asked for nothing, and gave all we could; it was enough most of the time; the rest of the time we just faked it, and ate our fill, and played the tambourine until we came back around again.
Yes, we knew how to disappear, but we never knew how to be found; our time was like a motorbike ride to nowhere to dance on the top of that hill we were always going for to be found.
She moved out more times than I can count now, as did I; but we always had a place to come back to when we were lost, some kind of something that, though it wasn’t much, it was all we had: a little place on love street that we called home for a while.
…
One time she had to go dancing in the rain, and left me in bed the whole day long. And then as I was stirring she came back and blew kisses on my lips from her travels that tasted of all the breezes I longed for.
…
But yang wouldn’t be much without ying…
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End of part one...

Image from Pixabay