...

wind-wilderness tinted, distinctive gaze.
endless-bound, guileless, ravenous blaze.
joyous life written with an effortless smile,
bright silent butterflies, falling in line.
(my dear, you will not stay defined...)
blues romance distraction, momentarily aside:
tune softly and bravely, sounds intertwine.
fingertips floating, freedom gently enslaved.
grateful breath taken; not shallow, nor saved.

For the day of the missed flight.

"It's all the mornings we missed for sleep, as the sun glides over our apartment..."  So what more can we do, but catch this one?  How amazing!  How mediocre.  How ours to say, this time around.

Maybe I would have felt more in-tuned, more in-awe, had the choice been made for him.  Maybe the miracle would have seemed more divine, than the plain truth of a choice.  Maybe I'm not used to being chosen -- even if only in part -- so as not to be able to recognize the distinct divinity therein.

It's those secrets you share in knowing everything there is to know about one another; the behind the scenes "Action!"; that Frances Ha moment.  It's the clearing of the mystery, out of your before-blurry eyes, just in time to see the magic unfurl.  "Once upon a time..."  I thought I knew the end to that story.  Now I just know better.  Now I know to wonder, what else?

Such a small, beautiful thing, and perhaps moreso in that so few will notice; give it more than a passing and uncertain glance.  But such a thing is, here, mine to behold.  If not to live first-hand, than blessedly, graciously, through the crystalline clear eyes out of which you
..................................................................................................................................glitter.
.....................................................................................................................................radiate.
........................................................................................................................................pulse.
...........................................................................................................................................look.

Suddenly back at me.

-L (6/17/13)

Not big on make-up, shoes, or a-holes -- but you do what you got to.

In the heart of the state, rolling along at toddler speed. The road whispering gravel all the way.

"Well maybe we'll get lucky and we'll both grow old, well I don't know, I don't know, I don't know, I hope so..."

Heart, body, mind, soul. Three out of four ain't bad, folks! (And I'll shave my legs when I want someone to touch them, yo.)

When you don't get to have it the way you want it, are you willing to have it the way it is?

-L (6/10/13)

"We'll leave a noooose on the aaattorney's desk..."

[I needed you more on some days than others. But you weren't there either way. And I survived.]

Months and months. "Rolling through the days with the gratitude of steam." Where am I now? Why do I stop writing? I need something new from myself. I need a truth, as of yet unthought of. And I need a story, other than my own -- at least until I can step back in as author once more, rather than playing within and throughout the sweet commitments I've given in to surround me. The emerald-stitch blueroyal, covers my eyes like a dark & weighted sheet, so that I cannot see past my sight. And for now, that's all right.

I went looking for a poet tonight. (Why is it important to record these minutes?!) I didn't know her name, but I knew what her sage voice sounds like -- her experience infiltrating its intoning rhythm. Hmmm... anyway. I'll find her soon, but tonight, with this momentary loss of inspired, I took joy in settling for hot tea in a tall glass, reading a page and a half of my slow, faux-intimate novel. And for a bit, considered gravely a particularly thirsted-for interaction, which was half-flirt, half-fret/fearful, as it left me glad but increasingly anti-climactic -- as though fading into ridiculous clumsiness, accompanying the unfamiliar scorch of my feeling shy.

My ears listened their fill of Margot and the Nucleur So & So's; my feet played cold together, swept beneath the blanket. I missed my sworn enemy, because he used to be my great love. Then, he had warmed my feet with the fleeting-est of lovers' looks. I bit my tongue to beat back the sensation the only way I knew how, because the only thing more distracting than pain is worse pain. Or at least, that which is more immediately painful, and thus inescapably tangible, as memoried musings never are. Only then might self-medication be an option worth faithful exploration, for some suddenly lonely night.

[Besides which, missing him pissed me off. That helped, too.]

-L (6/3/13)