*****
Oh, Tay. Oh! TAY! WE WERE SO CLOSE!
I could feel the electricity in the air. ‘Not the energy of your raging fans, all of those who were in the know or so financially “hooked up” that they could just run to get a glimpse of you at Lambeau Field. I didn’t have a flag. I didn’t have any bracelets. I didn’t have any Era Tour swag. I didn’t have a slick custom Boba-Fett costume, probably made with an expensive 3-D printer, wanting to get TV time to show that off by lumping myself in with the “Swifties.” I didn’t have tickets. But, I had a decent seat…at home…seeing those glimpses of you aired at home. I was sufficiently warm, and my sensitive ears didn’t have to fight the roar of the crowd…ya know…cuz I wouldn’t have the luxury of a premium box. No. I’d be stuck among the buzzed drunks who are torn between sucking up their own snot and downing another beer in those chilly seats.
[I may not have been there, that night. But, I was at a December Packers game, once, when Favre was still king (about to be exiled). And, I know how cold it can be. I can still remember trying to take pictures, my camera fogging up and my whole body shivering…and the drunk guy in front of me, about to fall down three rows, topless and out of his mind, looking like the lead singer of Green Day.]
I think I saw less of you than they showed at a previous Chiefs game, when they couldn’t get enough of you cuddling up with someone’s family (and probably a few security guards at the door).
Oh, Tay. I think our proximity worked some magic on that game. After all, what other time would there be two Taylors on opposite sides of the field…along with a #13 (and a #11). [I don’t understand how Patrick M. never played at Lambeau Field until that night.] For the woman who once sang a charming Love Story, you had Love’s story unfolding before you. You might have been dressed like a Chief, but you were Pack’d in green and gold (and in my rapidly beating heart). And, there were so many little moments when numbers were magical and/or coincidental; it made me think of you (and myself) and how you like to code and number things, trying to be sneaky and clever. Honestly, I think you and I would have SO much fun finding the magic little numbers in moments (and taking all of the credit).
[I suppose the easiest way for a fan to get close to you is to be at one of your concerts. But, I wouldn’t be content with that, nor comfortable. I couldn’t take much of the noise or crowd. And, what good would it do me to be kept at such a poor visual range and physical distance just to go back home alone? ‘Chances of getting backstage or within arm’s reach?…not likely. I might as well be in the Garden of Eden, looking at the apple incident from fifty shades away.]
I was nearly set on making a last-minute road trip to find you (repeatedly calling out, “ROAD TRIP!”), but no one I know was on board. No. You have no fans among my family. But, I don’t exile you for your celebrity status the way they do. I may not agree with your dating style (and am definitely not a fan of your dating history). I may not be the biggest fan of your entire “era” of music. [I have certain songs I enjoy, to some extent.] I retain a glimmer of hope that there is more to you than all the cameras capture. I want to believe you are torn between being a good show and true to something warmer, brighter and more uplifting. And, no matter what shade of blonde your hair seems to be in the moment (you know how I feel about that), you retain a certain demi-goddess-like quality.
[I’ll be honest, though, that belief is getting strained; and I partly blame myself for not being more direct and active in reaching you. I realize I don’t have any of the right connections and need to step up somehow…I’m just not sure how. On that note, I thought this was a nice little way of being witty and saying I still…like you…awlought. Don’t ever make me a hater.]
If resources were available…if I had the means to reach you…I would have been there, beside you, in a heartbeat (wearing a Packers #10 jersey and, probably, a Cheesehead hat). I wouldn’t be comfortable sitting among more rabid fans who practically wear you like a second skin, get drunk, sing karaoke versions of your music and then wake up the next morning in a haze with vomit breath. [It’s what some Wisconsinites do.] Instead, I settle for thinking I was with you, in spirit, because we are always linked in a sort of telepathic way, in the stars. And, you’ll excuse me if I chuckle…just a little…at how the game ended. There was a definite bit of pass interference that went unchecked. But, your boy was not in the right place to catch anything and not the one who was victim of the ignored foul; I think that was #11. Typical.
If you want to blame someone for the Chiefs losing, you can blame me…and you. It was our link that helped the Packers win. That’s my love story, and I’m sticking to it. If you don’t like it, you can just shake it off.
As one televised fan quoted, “You belong with me.” We just have to figure out how to make that happen. [Heh.]
In case we don’t see each other before then, happy birthday, beautiful.
[We were so close!]
*****
[I post this with semi-sound mind, knowing it will less likely be seen by Tay, herself, than it will be snatched up by some crappy internet leech looking for content to link to their deceptive website with all of its tricky pop-ups. I post it, as I have my other posts about Tay Swift, as a sort of thought or prayer put out into the universe, however it may reach her. May it travel by wing or kind messenger.]
Writingbolt's Creation 
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