Aquarionics

By by Nancy Moran and Barb Trammell
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There’s a girl in the window, her heart’s on the mend
Everyone loves her but she’s no one’s best friend
Years of two lives gone awry, why pretend
That this screenplay has no intermission

I look towards the window, the view becomes clearer
I notice my face is the one in the mirror
And I cling to a prophesy I now hold dear
There’s a place for our own self-attrition

But reflections don’t always reflect what is real
What is seen doesn’t always reflect what you feel
If the last piece of the puzzle will not solve the deal
Then I think I’ll forego that decision

Acquaintances come and leave ink marks on canvas
Lovers long brushstrokes paint portraits of time
Silhouettes, sculptures our families hand us
Come see my gallery, the art of my mind

Yesterday’s laughter becomes today’s smile
Happily, if after, we wonder a while
Well, it’s kept with the tears in a secret file
Just a part of my inner museum

And those tapestries woven were sacred to me
For so long were locked up that I’d thrown out the key
And then somebody somewhere found out history
Would not change if I let someone see them

Acquaintances come and leave ink marks on canvas
Lovers long brushstrokes paint portraits of time
Silhouettes, sculptures our families hand us
Come see my gallery, the art of my mind

I sketched out my life, though surreal, how I labored
Only black and white stick figures covered the page
When the rains came and smeared
All the colors I favored
It’s the gallery’s lesson, my coming of age

Acquaintances come and leave ink marks on canvas
Lovers long brushstrokes paint portraits of time
Silhouettes, sculptures our families hand us
Come see my gallery
Come see my gallery
Come see my gallery

Acquaintances come and leave ink marks on canvas
Lovers long brushstrokes paint portraits of time
Silhouettes, sculptures our families hand us
Come see my gallery, it’s one of a kind
No piece is for sale, it’s priceless
It’s mine

It would be fair to say that I am not an expert on Love.

I’m in love, but that doesn’t make me an expert in it any more than being insured on someone else’s car makes me president of Ford. I am a user, a victim, of the evil four letter word, but not someone qualified to say things like this:

There are always people to take things to flippantly. In the same way there are people who take things too seriously. Love is an awfully strong word to bandy about randomly, but there aren’t enough words between “friend” and “Love” to describe them. Of course, there is the thing of being both. You can be friends but not in love with each other, you can also (although most cases I’ve seen – and/or been in – this don’t actually work) be in love with someone before you are friends with them. Worst of all, maybe, are the star-crossed lovers. The ones the that love is unreciprocated. Love is a strange, wonderful, and terrible thing.

LoneCat was my friend for a while before she was my Significant Other, and I belive strongly that the most important part of the relationship is the friendship underneath it. This is a lecture, and I’m sorry for it, but the point of it is this: If (and fate forbid this could happen) *If* I could see me and Lonecat drifting *out* of love, I would far rather keep her friendship than drag out a relationship that could see us hating each other for ever.

Recently, some people have been worrying about my judgement over this day, and whether I will misjudge my wonderful SO enough to actually make a big deal out of it. I usually find Valentine’s day depressing enough to spend it locked away in my flat/room writing bad poetry. This year is different, but not quite so different as to make me ignore the fact that my SO hates the date almost as much as I do. Thus no spectacular redesigns with hearts and cupids, nor epic pieces of poetry. Not so much as a new story, even. (The one I’m working on is about entrapment. Not a valentines thing, traditionally). Just another diary entry, on another day, and me counting down to the weekend, when I get to see my Girlfriend again.

Have a pleasant day, flocks