For the day preceding a birthday.

Love to write beside the fact of lines. Sleep so quiet in the midst of chaos like anarchy's latest dream. Just try, just for an hour or so, and decide to last that long. Along the river's panel of glaring critics, be blinded by the fading light, if only for the round of night, and shirk the girth of day. Dream dreary if you'd think to dare, make allies of the light and dark, still one, still un-unified. Ewe-music, not silky like love's version of sex, but wool-fuzzy instead, and really much warmer than need be admitted.

Imagine being caged--designated animal, and left to chew at your rapidly healing flesh. Where would you end up? Who could you easily trust, then? Or carelessly converse with, when each person's eyes ever hold the silent, eager nature of intention? And when do you stop wanting, somewhere within yourself? When does one cease falling for life's promised offerings? Maybe it's ungrateful to wonder.

You should know that I love an awful lot about you. Your compassion, if not pure love; the question, grave, of whether you can think of me without the aid of my absence; your spring-endless source of creativity, without wonder; your messy soul, and artist's fingers with critical glance; your selective silence, hidden between the barrage carrying over of never vicious sounds--not quite aggression in music, but determinedly determined, having somehow learned to separate the two, my dear? Oh, I do love you, even though I want more from myself than I've any right to expect you to supply, as though in supplicant offering. What do you have to do with that? Only that i wish the answer were 'something'.

Faretheewell folk,
-Talthea (3/18/09)