I moved up town you know.
The other day on 74th I thought I glimpsed you from across the street. I was certain it was you and my breath caught in my chest. Then I realized I've been living like this for the last couple years, with my breath caught in my chest that way. That hard tight feeling, not a breath escaping, where nothing is permitted in, or out for that matter.
I remembered again this thing was so much bigger than me. It reminded me of that moment in your dimly lit room, your arms wrapped around my waist. I realized as I stood on the edge of your couch just how much bigger you were than me; and in turn just how big this whole thing had become.
It's moments like these when it's the subtlty that matters.
People live whole lives in the subtlties. It's those types of moments where one says nearly nothing but means almost everything. It's not the words that are said or even the amount of words spoken; it's what lays below the thin veil of words carefully crafted and uttered. Just below the surface a whole world of words and the weight of their meanings live lives all their own.
It was then you told me, my tiny form sluped forward in your arms,  "you taught me to love", and the echo behind the veil of words whispered the subtle addition, "so that I might love another."

Unfinished

First silence.
It grows louder and louder.
Until it becomes almost deafening.
You hold on to the paper in your hand as if it's the only evidence your anchored here.
Your mind jumps to the strangest things at first.
Run.
No.
Stay put.
Wait a minute, just wait a minute.
Then.
What do I do with this?
Put it in the desk drawer, with the rest?
What will I do with all those notices once I sale the desk?
Then it hits. Clearly.
And your legs feel useless beneath you.
You grasp at your middle as if to hold yourself together.
It feels hollow, weak.
Sounds come back.
Their your sounds, only they sound as though they are far off.
Gasping and heaving.
You feel your middle.
Hold tightly to prevent the buckling.
You want to scream, break things, throw something.
But the air has been sucked out of the room.
And if you don't hold tight to your middle you'll certainly come apart.
You think of the last time you saw them.
You think how even now it seems shadowy in your mind.
You think of how their place will be so empty.

Awaken

Warmth, silence, and peace wrap me in comfort as I slumber.
The sun's rays spill in through the corners of the window.
They quietly creep across the floor... until they have filled the room.
They plead with my heavy eyelids to open.
They coax me with warmth and the promise of the new day that lay before.

I awake and greet my morning.

A Process By Elimination

Each corner whittled away.
Each skin shed.
Each day passed.
Each leaf that falls silently to the ground.
Each turn of the season.
Each moment slips away.
Each part and portion mark this process of elimination.
This rolling distance of the here and then becomes only fading light, dimming memories... vague recollection stretching out on the road beyond.
In this gray light and fog of memories, I have dwelt.

Symphony of Miles

The rush of the wind.
The steady beat of my peddle stroke.
The crunch of the road underneath my tires.
All these produce the collective symphony.
This symphony marks the passage of miles drawing me ever closer to the horizon.

The smell of freshly turned, dampened earth mingles with the scent of fresh melon and smoke in the distance.
These smells are carried on crisp air that bade me to the mountains beyond.

The sun licks my skin and warms my eyelids, when I dare close them, producing a world of shadowy orange landscape.

This feeling of cutting away from a starting point, straight through the still air and time keeps fatigued legs moving rhythmically.

I feel the  road beneath me as it stretches before me.
I breath in the rich smell of earth and fields.
I close my eyes once more and the warmth of the orange shadow landscape washes over me.
My mind set on the point where the expanse of sky and mountains meet narrowing road.
The horizon bids, beckons me on, and I become a part of this symphony of miles.

Wind

It’s the saddest sunrise we’ve ever taken in

When with the shroud of night the sun robs you of all you’ve been hoping

These winds of change blow on me now

But I’m not certain if this isn’t the direction I have chosen somehow

And if this wind can carry on it seeds

Then they’ve taken root and wounded me.

  

The Way a Mouth Forms Words

So much depends on the way a mouth forms the words, a tone, a meaning conveyed only in feeling, carried on words as they are released into this air between us.

Your mouth and the words once so warm and familiar.

The way you spoke my name once, in such a way that it was a word private, intimate, familiar, now falls forth from your lips as just another word spoken (impersonal).

It came from those lips, once so tender, with rigid formality, such to show not ourselves but to communicate the point to those other hearers, “there is no intimate connection we two share.”  

Here in the pale light and brisk air I strode by your side.

This chill takes hold. ..

Moments tick by...

Silence takes hold...

My mouth holds captive the words I long to say (much as the reason you impose holds you prisoner even now).

I dare not part these lips.

You see, I know if I let these words drip from this already down turned mouth the sorrow would also spill from my eyes.

Thus, just as this began so does it continue without explanation.

There is no explanation needed with the falling of the leaves there is no slowing this season from drawing to a close.

We continue this walk.

These narrow streets cannot hold the distance between us now.

You are increasing in speed now at such a pace that I cannot catch the hand that may still want to be held here. I could see its hesitation, much like that tenderness in your eyes before it too retreated.

I am aware that though I may give chase I may well never catch you..Though I practice this sprint you will draw further ahead.

I may but hang back under these yellow street lights though they hold no warmth, in quiet observation.

But please know my dear that I cannot remain here for always awaiting your return.

So much depends on the way a figure forms an action, a tone, a meaning only conveyed in a feeling carried by the feet of one who walks away and leaves traces hanging in the air and distance between us.