about now—
about "then"
really
since
thought and emotion flexed nearer four.
Rhymes with day, say, hay, stay, pay, quay, pray: that you.
The one i do not own, cohabiting newly meds, waking decisions that continue slight alterations
finding a pattern that may not have to guess at "yes" and may not press "though," "so", "show", "go";
no, not the sounds before you. That you, rhyming with day, say, hay, stay, pay, quay, pray. Here is
another simple "I do not own you." No matter the amount of years we share, our separate belonging
is knit through less tangible signs, signs that are not for sale, signs that are not ex-nihilo,
recreated, deemed more and less worthy than moments in some other part of our beings near
birthrights. i miss you every day, at least once, sometimes attending to the racing parts of God's
mine. Hoping to catch your breath, not to stop you, but to be known by and with you the way God
knows I wonder.
But my escape routes continue mapping themselves alongside your very quiet ones, reading and
listening to your soul's singing itself out of this shared house, maybe with, maybe without me. We both
escape, frequently, I think. and I miss you every day about "now," or about "then," depending upon
my quickness to rise and let us in or out.
The house is warm.
The dishes are clean.
The fuzz around the tops of the inside of the kitchen cabinets is still thick and i kick myself, higher,
to get it out of our breathing spaces.
My plans continue, all new, ever new, and eventually, usually at many points converging into one very
good thought practically known. Practical thought.
The pets are ours with their same names.
And I pray for the friends we do not see, reminded to do so through social media.
Do you remember when praying was a matter of Spiritual prodding?
Are our prayers our escape routes? What do you think, you rhyming so well?
At 44% I glance to see the number change to (43%) Wed 5:26 PM.
Flutes.
Steel strings, twelve.