We should learn how not to be ashamed of desire, unmet.

Like in limbo. A place where the before is at least as eventful as the after, but the now is an unasked question. Hanging. Wine covered up by quasi-carbonation and a phone loudly not ringing. When love calls like duty calls, the moment stagnates like a pristine dress--worn not for the lack of promise.

It's a crack waiting to happen, breaking down the center of our hearts. These plans too terrified to be made; this double-jointed heart at odds with your impervious schedule, so expectantly arbitrary. Where's the hope in falling, love?

When you won't be found. Lose yourself willingly, but only by yourself. Come down from the joy; climb high out of the wallowing and follow the steps you're going to take. Better to be there knowingly, be it with misery or companion - or companionable silence. Re-read the words that make the writing of them worth it, and try not to wait for the call.

But why (not)?

Faretheewell folk,
-Talthea (5/13/09)