Caleb Orion

You come in the night and I wake up for a second and I can hear you breathing as you stand in the doorway and place your hand against the door frame and the creaking of the floor wakes me up a second time as you step from the kitchen into the entry to leave. As the door slams I pass out again and in the morning the envelope I left on the coffee table is gone and the water has dried and everything has been put back in its place, as if last night never happened. Never happened.

Oh, it happened. It happened because your fingerprints were on the door frame, smudges against the dark polish.

I walk to a small shop down the street and buy myself a pack of rolls and a magazine. When I get home I lay on the couch and fall asleep.

You once told me that when you were six you held a stranger’s hand in the street, because for a moment his khakis looked the same as your fathers. That each man was simply a pair of pants, and you would wander around, half expecting your father at every corner.
And on the sofa while I held your memory in my arms, I recalled the little things. I remembered the way you’d hold your glass when you took a drink.

When I wake up I am on a bus and it’s arriving in Chicago and I can feel the wind already, beating against me, and even though I don’t know if that’s just a saying, if it’s just called the Windy City or if it really is the windiest place in the world, I know that my perception is controlled. I’d like to walk down Michigan Avenue. I’d like to see the great lakes. I’d like to burn burn burn this city down and build it back up, maybe your bones would reveal themselves in the ash. Then I walk and walk and all night I’m trudging down side streets and I wear baggy clothes and my hair is greasy and I hope to God that I don’t attract unsavory attention.
In the envelope on the coffee table there was something, and I don’t think I’ll find anything in Chicago because I don’t know where to look and it’s a huge city. But I find a small cafe that next morning and somehow I run into you.
It’s not a coincidence. I think you’re following me. I know I’m trying to follow you.

And you sit down across from me and you have a cup of coffee in your hand and I don’t look up because I’m scared to see what’s in your eyes. And you touch my hand and I almost faint I’m so numb.
“Why don’t you go home?” you say, and I can’t respond because my throat is dry or not dry but it hurts to sing.
“I don’t have anything for you,” you say, and I want to know what’s in the letter. What did that man want? What are you doing in Chicago?
“I…” and then when I look up you’ve gotten up from your chair and you’re headed to the door and I want to stand up and catch you and stop you and beg you to stay, to go home with me, take the bus, buy a ticket.
But then you stop at the door and you turn around and I’m looking in your eyes and I’m so scared. You come back and you take my hand.
“Let’s get you cleaned up,” you say. We go back to your hotel and in the shower we fuck, and then after the shower we make love. And between those two moments I break down and pull my bones back together again.
And even though I’m clean you say, “Let’s get you cleaned up.”

And I know exactly what you mean.

I’ve been recording demos of a bunch of songs that I may want to record at some point, and I just wrote this one today and I wanted to show it off. It’s a love song, something I haven’t really written in a while, so I hope it’s good. I tried a few things differently than I normally do, and I want to change a few of the notes that I sing in some parts. Overall, this isn’t what it’s going to sound like, necessarily, but it’s a start and I can figure out where everything moves with it. I hope it’s good! Leave a note telling me what ya’ll think. Also, the MP3 can be downloaded here: http://www.caleborion.com/music/CalebOrion-HereOnTheIceFlow.mp3

I’m a torch and
She’s my cigarette
I will light her up
I’m her vision
She’s my wish and
Sip from the silver cup

We’ll both stay here
In the street, yeah
Flagging down the beat
In the midnight
Of the warm light
Underneath the sheet

Baby winds her body in the soft air
Will she bend or will she break or will she
Run her fingers through my hair
I’ve been losing my mind looking at her
When she’s there, it’s tough luck,
Trying not to stare

I will wait for you
No matter how long you want me to
Just as long as you
Tell me it’s what you want to do

We’re two thin wires
Seperated by
Air that we can’t see
Let the spark strike
And the fire ignite
So that it can be

I’m a lion
She’s a baroness
Let her tame me
From the rat race
And the cat chase
We’ll be freed

Baby turns her head to look and see
I have eyes for her and she has eyes for me
I’ve been looking on for this long now
How can I keep her, how can I let her know

I will wait for you
No matter how long you want me to
Just as long as you
Tell me it’s what you want to do

I’m alone and
She’s at home and
We’re apart
I will wake soon
In my own room
With her in my heart

It seems like everything makes me cry these days.
I’ll be sitting on the couch in our home, staring off into space, not watching the television but it’s on. I’ll hear a few words. Dead animals or cancer patients or womens rights or fires. I don’t even know how it sets me off anymore. But it all relates to you, somehow, all of this. Every teardrop is you.
Every clenched stomach, every day gone uneaten, every tiny granule of tooth scraped off in the anxious dark.
I haven’t cried this hard since you first left. Since you disappeared out of my life. I haven’t cried this hard since I was born. I’ve never cried this hard. Nobody has.
And when I’m not crying, or sleeping (when that happens), or working, or eating (when that happens), I’m stone and cold. I spend every open moment just sitting there. Just dying. I can feel my life seeping from me and out of my pores. I don’t need the air conditioner anymore. It’s all just cold already.

And I’m in one of those moods.
And I have my phone off.
And I sit on the couch with the television on.
When the door makes sound.

At first there’s no response in my mind. I sit slouched against the sofa, half pretending I don’t hear it, half not hearing it at all. I stand up.
Then I open the door and there’s a man with a black hat on, big wide black hat and he’s going to step inside, at least he looks like he’s going to. I don’t know what he’s doing there but I’ve been sitting on the couch in my half-awake coma for so long now that I don’t blink, and he just stands there, and neither of us speaks a word for what seems like an eternity.
Then he says, “Hi.”
What is he doing here?
“I’m looking for Elias?” He looks behind me into the house.
You left so long ago, and I don’t know where you are. But what is this man doing here? Looking for you?
“I need to see him about… business.”
What sort of business is the man in, what is Elias involved in? I try to remember what it was you did, and I can’t. Maybe I never knew. Maybe I did know, but I can’t recall because all I can think about is maybe you’re dead.
“If you see him give him this.”

I put the envelope the man gave me on the table and sit back down. I turn off the television, and in the dark while my eyes are still adjusting I think I see your ghost shimmering through the room to the kitchen. And I think you’re going to get a sandwich and I almost ask you to get me one, but I know that ghost isn’t real because my eyes finally adjust and the shadows that creep along the wall are as normal and natural as the envelope on the table.
And then I grab the envelope and I am about to tear it open but instead I swipe my hand across the surface of the table and knock everything off it. The glass of water I wasn’t drinking, the vase of dried flowers, the box of weed and the stack of magazines. The carpet quickly darkens in one big spot and I drop the envelope onto the empty table and turn to the bedroom.

For three nights afterwards I dream you’re in Chicago.