At Love’s Helm

I try to keep from pushing up against you in public places. Admittedly, any effort to put a hold on how I feel — needless when compared to the openness of French lovers — is the part of friendship that has taken hold of any sensibilities.

So, I have decided, given my growing desire to think dirty, my only dignity is to insure I keep my hands pointing, gesturing, and holding glacé.

I hope trusted friends, long standing, and dispersed around the world, understand why I’ve become a missing person. If they came upon me now I’m sure they’d find me certifiable for any institution they could name.

You see, I can be counted on to be a good natured friend — but as a lover — not so much.

I’m a writer, a songster, a gypsy by trade, a pirate of the heart, it has been said. Beauty, then, is one thing; the spoils for the torn and weary heart. But the pirate in me has mapped your treasure.

I cannot recall how long it took to make this friendship, perhaps it took something of all the others, through the long years I’ve lived without her, the one.

Some of what you are to me was cut in Paris, listening to Leonard, more in San Francisco, but maybe the best part of it was formed this morning, over coffee and croissant, amid the masts of Saint Tropez, and helped by the young graffiti artist who showed us in real time that romance can be written on a billboard just as well as a music sheet.

The songs I write, written in my head as we strolled arms entangled, are recorded to my heart as a human symphony; being no more than a musical biography of two people wondering how it will be to fall in love once again.

Tomorrow the crusade continues...the quest for love…again.

One clap, two clap, three clap, forty?

By clapping more or less, you can signal to us which stories really stand out.