Barefoot

You don't know the power that you have with that tear in your hand.

Your car is the first thing I see. It's not likely that we will meet here but still my heart races. I wander around wanting to see you but not wanting to see you too. Do you understand?

While wandering I see: a group of yuppies still in their suits toasting the fine weather (indeed it is fine), a playground, a pond, swimming pools, bath tubs, a beach -- all kinds of water and water containers and the black of the blackest ocean.

I take my sandals off and carry them in my hand. All the world is all I am. Do you understand?

This is how I am when I see you: Barefoot, flushed from the exercise, my hair sticking to my face, my shirt wet.

You are sitting in a gazebo that overlooks a lake. You are with two girls. (I think they're pieces of me you've never seen.) I approach. (I've forgotten to put my sandals on and they are still swinging from my left hand.)

You rise and stare in disbelief. Well, part of me doesn't want to see you, right? And that part of me wants to turn around and run. But you smile at the same time a tear falls from the corner of your eye and you come towards me and we hug and I let my sandals drop on the ground.

All the world just stopped now.

***
Tori Amos' words from "Tear in Your Hand" in Italics.