Musings by The Poet Loriet
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"Late last night, I heard the screen door swing,
and a big yellow taxi took my girl away.
Now don't it always seem to go
you don't know what you got til it's gone.
Hey now, they paved Paradise
and put up a parking lot."
~Counting Crows~
This scene keeps replaying
like a dusty film reel
in black and white.
You sit on a barstool
drinking a virgin...
Bloody Mary.
Our denim legs entwine,
my hand in your back pocket,
your hand on my thigh,
our gazes locked,
our lips touching gently,
softly, wetly,
over and over
and over again.
We make out like teenagers
in a deserted bar.
Chris Isaac's sexy voice croons,
"What a wicked thing to do,
to make me dream of you."
I give you my sultriest,
most intent gaze,
the one I use to beg
you not to go...
and you always look away.
"Don't do that, baby!
You're killing me!"
Can we ever go back?
I miss you.
Damn you, baby!
I miss you like crazy!
That was our last official date.
I want to remember us that way,
when you still thought
that I was someone special.
I want to remember
your kisses as being passionate,
your touch soft.
I want to believe,
have to believe
that some tenderness remains.
I don't want to remember
you hanging up on me,
your angry words,
the way you let me go
without a fight.
I stand in the doorway
watching for you to come back,
to say you're sorry and
"how did things get so messed up?"
and you can gather me in your arms,
tell me you missed me...
My tears blend with the rain.
Headlights turn into tail lights,
and rain puddles splash as
car tires roll on by.
The storm rages on,
not a rainbow in sight.
Lori Beal
and a big yellow taxi took my girl away.
Now don't it always seem to go
you don't know what you got til it's gone.
Hey now, they paved Paradise
and put up a parking lot."
~Counting Crows~
This scene keeps replaying
like a dusty film reel
in black and white.
You sit on a barstool
drinking a virgin...
Bloody Mary.
Our denim legs entwine,
my hand in your back pocket,
your hand on my thigh,
our gazes locked,
our lips touching gently,
softly, wetly,
over and over
and over again.
We make out like teenagers
in a deserted bar.
Chris Isaac's sexy voice croons,
"What a wicked thing to do,
to make me dream of you."
I give you my sultriest,
most intent gaze,
the one I use to beg
you not to go...
and you always look away.
"Don't do that, baby!
You're killing me!"
Can we ever go back?
I miss you.
Damn you, baby!
I miss you like crazy!
That was our last official date.
I want to remember us that way,
when you still thought
that I was someone special.
I want to remember
your kisses as being passionate,
your touch soft.
I want to believe,
have to believe
that some tenderness remains.
I don't want to remember
you hanging up on me,
your angry words,
the way you let me go
without a fight.
I stand in the doorway
watching for you to come back,
to say you're sorry and
"how did things get so messed up?"
and you can gather me in your arms,
tell me you missed me...
My tears blend with the rain.
Headlights turn into tail lights,
and rain puddles splash as
car tires roll on by.
The storm rages on,
not a rainbow in sight.
Lori Beal
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