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As the moon greets the new day, I often find myself wondering whether you awoke by the same light that crept through my open window, sweeping away the sleep from my heavy eyes like a thief in the night. Did you find yourself up, drowsy, still in haze of what your resting mind showed you behind the curtain of seista?
If you were, I would be overjoyed simply knowing you and I were once more connected through the silly mutuality of a mundane morning routine.
When the sun bids farewell, do you find yourself wide awake, a nementia. Unable to recall what was stolen from you the same morning and as the realization sets in you feel it. The gut-wrenching comprehension that We no longer exist.
Covering our faces with thick blankets, crinkled noses and white knuckles around our cold bodies.
Our chest convulsing for the hit of what it used to be.
Do you blame me like I blamed you? Only to blame yourself as I, just till the mind finally takes ahold and pulls you into a vast deep blue?
Does your thief arrive to steal from you yet again?
Oh, pray tell. Pray tell, you do, don't you?
Amid the stuffy roads, coffees we prefer due to convenience, the greens and whites, the special perfume you borrowed from your father that sunny 7am when you met my mother
Pray tell, when you put it on, does it steal from your peace the way it does for me.
Our Maru Mori
The simple experience of the sun on our faces, the air around us, the moon we share and the roads between?
How trivial, how important.
An existence within itself. An existence that is know not to you but to me alone. This is my vaucasy, a product of my circumstance that has let me to imagine your complacency to my fantasy.
As the crowd grows, do you find yourself looking for me more and more? Our arms cramped and hair a-mess.
A glimpse, that's all. One small look, a sliver of brown or blue. A silly figment of light bouncing off eyes that once held our future.
We swore to no attachment
But weren't we truly from Adam and Eve?
This noose around my neck continues to sway me, left to right. My neck doesn't seem to snap. My skin burnt by hemp and my throat clipped, yet I find it comfortable to breath.
I have become a pendulum to the desire of what could have been and what is.
If only the third of February lasted forever and ever.
I would sleep easy knowing you were there.
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