Recycling the tales

I went back to a journal from 2000 to find a song I’d never finished. Out of curiosity I flipped the page to find a story that might have been or is yet to be.

From August 2000:

This is the story…

It begins somewhere & someplace else
writing itself out of time.
A boy and a girl,
like most stories have,
are the center of the tale.
But what is the magic in this particular combination?
A difference of opinion or the development of trust?

A lucky break under a lucky star,
with just enough difficulty for romance.
A meeting of strangers
mistaken about meeting before.
The blind meeting the blind
finally realizing they can see.
A heartbreak,
a rebound,
ten thousand songs whirling the night till dawn.

Chances are this never happened,
but that’s what tales are made of,
a circumstance that could never be believed.
They say that truth is stranger than fiction.
So who can say?

He was going to kiss her,
but he left the chance untaken,
left her pouting to herself.
There are plenty of other things they could have done,
but this is what they chose.
An opportunity missed
or disaster side-stepped?

But that is not what the story is about.
This is a chance taken and a flame ignited
because that’s what stories are made of…

She liked to be alone in public.
He liked to be in public alone.
Both were happy with their arrangement.
A butterfly’s moment of conversation between notebooks & games.
One day she told him he was beautiful.
Without hesitation he replied that she was too.
That’s how it started or ended or was about to begin.
He could play music that would make her dance.
She could write songs that would open his soul.
A tentative exchange begun balancing on the edge of a knife.
This left her alone in public not wanting to be alone.
He held a phone number in his hand that burned with a fire
he wasn’t sure he wanted to play with.

And that’s where the story ends
or begins again.

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