Amy Winehouse on the stereo in the empty diner.
Another voice lost too soon, too young,
perhaps the one you miss the most,
a voice and a style too soulful to lose.
A tear forms. Out of character, but then
you find yourself more and more out of character
as you age. Feeling far older than the mirror announces.
It’s not the miles…..
But it is the miles. The wear. The tear.
the broken parts adding up. Less and less working.
Slowly, and it has been happening for a decade and a half,
you have been reduced to your essence.
Far simpler. Far deeper than you once believed yourself to be.
The rough edges worn to raw skin, raw heart,
hungry for love. Hungry to be heard. Hungry to understand
how all this came about, but coming to accept
the whys don’t matter.
There is only now.
There is only here.
There is only what you are
and what you are becoming,
a trajectory flinging you far into the fog.
About this poem.
I have been playing a lot of Amy Winehouse in the studio this week.
I sometimes wonder how I got here. Not that I don’t love where I am. But man, what a journey!
Because of my unraveling many years ago, I have come to live in the moment far more than most people. I don’t know if that is good or bad. It just is.
I love fog.
From all that, this poem.
PS: Obviously I did not take that picture. Thank you NBC News.