Mitchell's Mustard Blog

October 11, 2015

Bricks and Mortar

Filed under: A Little Something — Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , — mitchellsmustard @ 5:36 pm

Dear you,

The reflection of the mirror never pays you justice. I sit there and watch as you get ready, knowing that you just can’t be replicated. Like that of a picture, beautiful, but never able to compete with the real spectacle. The glow, the desire, the overall being. I don’t know if this is real, so many questions. But none important enough to stop me admiring your presence. Believing in the tomorrow, the stars may not be aligned, but I’m working on that. I’ll roll my sleeves up and build the ideal setting. I’ll dig the tunnel, fix the bridge, pull your boat ashore. We are the river, not the drift wood. I’m not one for coasting, as long as I have strength, I’ll hold you high because I want to show you the sights. I have no interest in being your history, your regret, your once was. There’s no future in that, directionally driven and I wasn’t built with a reverse gear. Not born for games, the only match I’m looking for is one you can ignite, hold it under my heart so you can see me for who I am. In fear of the burn, but not enough to stop me from playing with fire. ‘Home is where your heart is’ they say, and I want you to be my bricks and mortar. Like a kite on a windy day, letting you down isn’t an option. We may dip, a little sway here and there, but there’s always the strength to bloom in the sky.
Because of you, I know that romance isn’t dead.

Me

October 9, 2015

The Cigar Shack

Filed under: Just a Thought — Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , — mitchellsmustard @ 11:44 am

Holding light from times past, and a swirling desire for times to come. This little wooden pocket of memories, It’s filled with love. The kind of love you can’t buy, trade, or surrender. Tucked away in the centre of a city we love, a stone’s throw from the hustle, this little delicate corner always keeps the silence, for when we return. To step in and take a breath, to take a moment, an hour or two. There’s no busy clock hands, no intermittent reminders, all outside communication is sealed away in a bottle and thrown overboard until we decide to return to civilization. A little white china ashtray gripping our addiction as we pick at olives and pistachios. Cigarette smoke rising into a game of kiss chase, converging before dancing along the walls and running off into the night together, no looking back. As the evening starts to turn, the chill creeps in around the corners hungry for its first victim, only to be disappointed by the woolen tartan blankets that we find ourselves nestled up in. The contagious rhythms of Pink Floyd and laughter take over, folding the silence up, and keeping in a safe place for when it’s needed again. These sounds echoing around the walls before they become etched into the night sky. A delicate little spot that never seems to be busy, our own little find, tranquillity. The occasional interruption from the bar staff informing us of the origin and history from which our rum has endured. The ice gently singing a song as it taps the side of the glass, a sweet melody of partnership. Whether it sings for it’s own duet, or for us, we’ll never know. But we can always turn it into whatever we want, we’re both good at that, making any situation a good situation, our own. Eventually it becomes time, time to fold up the blankets, extinguish the cigarettes, let the ice finish it’s last tune. As we step away, we watch the lights fade as the cushions regain their original plump form. We know this little wooden pocket will be there when we return, for as long as we remember why it’s there, for us.

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