Do you know how hard it is to see around the corner from 20 meters back?
And now you’re talking about what’s around the bend from here! You make me collapse at the dinner table with laughter, when you go on about the people you’ve had the pleasure of meeting; Some of them are characters I want to put in my books. I doubt I ever will though. I’m always busy acting like I’m too busy to make progress on the story. It would really be a great one, and we know it. Some things you really can see before you go over the cliff. It isn’t a good idea to jump off after this one, since you’d find that unlike your fall, the pages stop about halfway through. If you went up high enough though? You might be able to catch the next installment; I’ve still got breath don’t I baby? So I’m still penning.
I haven’t seen you, I haven’t seen you in – How long has it been?
in a year or maybe ten – It might be ten this August or February;
but it all fits. Whatever the number, It always does,
with us. Yes, we’ve always had snug compositions.
So, gasp – you’re looking blue, ravishing too –
gasp as I kiss you over the waterfalls and down the river ways;
across my seas of mere abandon; I find a seat next to you.
You are sitting right here and I can touch you, as thick as a fog you can’t see through
and we are silent. Absolute, ear ringing silence permeates the veil.
like we’ve been waiting for a better time to speak! Like we’ve been;
All these years in dark undergrowth and canopy layers that a fire would find itself quenched by before anything could burn, all these years spent smoldering, like the last flame has gone out; but we’ve survived
and you don’t need to speak. You didn’t, nor do you, have to say anything,
for me to hear you. Without words my answer was given.
Tomorrow, we’ll part, as we all always do. This is just the ship leaving port. We usually talk about how wild and fantastic it is to make land elsewhere after times spent on the water. It’s nothing dire. It’s nothing we haven’t handled before; It’s just our infrequent pastime – I wouldn’t call it a holiday – but if it was a date I’d mark it.
And again, no tears, no remorse. In a year. Or ten. In another corner, of another world, perhaps in one of the books I’ll leave at a spot I like to frequent, or someplace entirely familiar to forego all that telling;
Our love will
find its way again
I’ve always had a telling for everything,
and it isn’t gold that is in your dreams.