For years we have spoken
in terms of movies.
We have behaved as characters
acting out each day,
conversing in cryptic quotes,
defining the times with writers and directors,
until the life that surrounds us becomes
a late-night B-grade horror show
where we can predict each plot twist,
each shock that should send us to our knees...
So I find it no surprise
to wish we were shipwrecked
on that proverbial desert island
where big-screen TVs and good speakers
matter more than food or water,
and though I never could decide
what ten movies I'd bring along
I'm fairly sure I would
want to bring you
We could project ourselves
alongside the figures on the screen,
become gallant hero,
defiant heroine,
saving lives, saving ourselves,
secretly dreaming of the sweet
collision of skin and skin...
We could be the kind of
classic screen couple
that makes the audience
laugh and cry and sigh
and remain in their seats
long after the last credits roll,
disbelieving the fade to black
because
they don't make them
like that
anymore
But if it has to end
could we end it like Casablanca:
plane taking off in black and white
its cargo the unforgettable past
the beginning of a beautiful friendship
Because it always comes down to
3 am in the parking lot
when all the cheesy gladiator flicks in the world
can't stave off sunrise
or slow the end of summer
or stop you kicking pebbles
in the gutter, in the mist,
with Bogart in your smile
and James Dean in your stride
And if this were a movie
you would be turning back
to end the world looming between us,
fall into my aching arms,
drink from my lips
to a soundtrack of flutes
and sighing violins
But I have no courage
to whisper you home to me,
and you,
my co-star,
reel life legend,
eternal leading man,
you
keep walking,
bandaged in morning fog
until you are gone,
mummified,
lost beyond the borders of a final frame,
disappearing
to remind me
that even if movies become my life
still my life will not be the movies.
Email me about "Movie Kind Of Love"