Baby, as ancient as you are
your naivety worries me,
or is it my own? Thinking I
could ever have you again.
Oh but how I wish, pray, on knees
again to set eyes upon glory
of man named Antonio Guadi,
his Sagrada De Familia.
Is he finished with you yet?
Will he ever be? Would I want it so?
Artisans carving sanctity to sky,
what have you chisseled in my absense? Is God's work ever done?
Do, continue on forever, give me
chance to return.

Ah to bask on shore of San Sebastian,
with pollished rellics of former
architecture found in his beaten grains.
I long to melt there once more, in awe of
noon on Mediterranian Sea. My eyes
taking witness to painted Catalonian
women, *******, with holy devotion
dipping faithful fingers into your
waters, and signing the cross before
dipping into blueness. Good Catholic
girls they are. And handsome Gods about,
oiling each other and bearing wittness
as well. The ice cream boy, is he
grown now? Does he walk by open
mouthed still, where we left such
imprint in the sand for all to see?

When? If, I arrive again, will we walk
Las Ramblas, stare at human
statues, dance with gypsies, drink
Absinthe and be taken by spell of
Green Fairy? Will we then not care
that pretty pick-pockets rob us
blind? Oh, for the hallucinatory
love of it all! Hold me in your fortress
walls forever, should I ever, return.

My Barcelona Baby, take me back.

PJ Poesy

p.s. I never left you.

For the low low price of just being within' earshot,
the conversation analyst will run a full diagnostic on your conversation.

You know how that perfect comeback
feels, three weeks after
You didn't say it?

In training, representatives for Inbound sales listen to recordings of their own phone calls and critique them like Art majors in a studio class.

Our conversation analyst.
Looks at you like a shoe on the wall.

Unlike the psychology major,  the conversation analyst will never share his results.

He'll just judge you.
Silently.

He doesn't speak.
His fourth grade english teacher taught him that the carpenters house is never finished.
She was referring to her husband, the carpenter, not finishing the renovations on their new home, but the conversation analyst heard it as a metaphor, and adopted it as a universal truth.

Much like a painting controls the path your eye travels the canvas, or the scientific process that goes into composing music,
the way you build rapport is one of those things that people don't realize can be an art form until they wittness it professionally.

Our conversation analyst considers himself  Socio-passionate.

Which amuses him, when he deducts points from your conversation for not empathizing correctly.
Or not giving effective compliments by asking a relevant question afterwards.

The conversation analyst is not always mute. On special occasions such as first impressions he is a fine conversationalist.

You can meet the conversation analyst for the first time, as many times as you want.

If the carpenters house is never finished.
The conversation analyst
exemplar at listening,
Will never hear you.

A thousand times I should've known
I should have felt
The thousand times without.
For the misplaced faith in a wraith I couldn't doubt...

My own feeling left me reeling
For me to tell the one story,
I'd left untold
And I can never know - if I was right...

I dreamt a hundred lives
And in each time
I never saw your face...

You were here with me from the beginning
Maybe a reflection of my ghost
Or I was too young for me to place you.

On and on.

But I chased you well.
I told the stories
In poems, songs, in visions
In theories, in ev'ry mis-decision
I keep you alive in every lie
In every breath that claims that I
I believe

Did you know that I drowned...
Twice?

You are my hidden face
Wittness to my unveiled disgrace
I was once asked in all my songs
Who were "you"

My unseen mistress
My forgiveness,
My implacabal
Agressive shadow

My insecure insignificant
My insight
Myself deplorable
An adorable
A beautiful disaster

And we slept
So many nights
In each other's comforting arms
And I invited you in
Without a fight
But thats all you left in me

... the FIGHT

My disgraceful, irreplaceable
My exoneration,

my desperation, my displacement,
my revelations...

My whimsical
Mystical, quixiotical
My enervation...

Disgraceful, irreplaceable, it's not just distrust,
Its ireedemable

You're my,

Captivated, and one day they'll maybe see
You've always been me

My inescapable

"you"