Dave Grohl - Times like these acoustic
The shock had gone, at least the initial. The news. The absence sudden shocking. The crush. It made no sense. Not to her. Not to anyone. The lingering loss that seared her. Each time a pause. Each time a question why. It made no sense, the passing. It wasn't supposed to be. No hallmark after-school special ever addressed. Slight whispers never passed moments when parents tucked her in as a child, The promise of a new day waiting expectantly on the horizon. This was not supposed to be.
That is when she reached out to a rogue cavalier from the past. A simple move, perhaps he would notice, perhaps not. But he did sending a reply simple. Words, perhaps raw, perhaps eloquent, or maybe something more... by being less: Poetic Truth.
Should he remind her? The simmering beautiful confidence he saw in her whiplash smile every time he saw her. The greetings she passed with the mischievous look in her eye that beckoned one to join... just for fun. It would be fun, subtle reminder in her smile that never died. The shaded shock of blonde that stuck out beneath the sandy strains. The pink pursed lips that never failed to hold a smile for him, some nights making him believe that they were for him only.
Did she know what she needed to know? She was precious. Her trait, her persona, that called to life all that surrounded her? She may bear new scars from a pain unbelievable. But she will survive. Scar tissue is stronger than regular tissue. Not only that, but it is proof that she survived. She is a survivor. He would never forget the moments of escape when they were merely one. One with the other. Dangerously speaking truths each to each. To live in defiance of a world sedated in its slumbering half truths. All the while the pull, the undertow drew and danced each dangerously close to each.
Perhaps she forgot. When he had heard the news he kept his words to himself. She had gotten a job in an industry where the extension of only a promise was held as somehow more real than reality itself. Paper men and plastic women would cross, would remain resistant to her exuberance for life. They would not know. Or worse they would not care. They only longed for the saccharine. They longed to be fed only by daydreams of neverworlds. If their sight was clouded, they wouldn't have to see the reality. He had lost one to such a world. He could not bear to loose another.
But where it was? Where she was, he knew not. Where should he guide? Where should he console? Did he reveal too much in his shirtsleeve diplomacy? Did it matter? In the end... no.
She needed to know her strength. She needed to know the life that erupted in her eyes. She needed to know the truth she cried out stood forth as a beacon that shattered back the encroaching darkness. She was bold, she was beautiful, she simply was. And that was, and would always be...
more than enough.
Poetic Truth.
