One Other Afternoon
Time is a sprinkler of life, hope, pleasure, pain, poetry, and you, and time wins its own promise. Here is one other afternoon with a freckled sun. A perfectly crowded time of day, full of colors, sounds, autumn, and smell of vegetarian lasagna. I think of you and how many pieces I will write for you before the glistened charm of the words gently pull you toward me, before humans, before hidings, before future, and before whispering dreams off the pages. I don’t have you therefore there is no fear of losing you. I don’t seek excuses to see you. I don’t go to places to get drunk in love and wait for you to hold my living body. I don’t tell you of my dreams, secrets, imaginations, rising, humbling, and worshiping. I have this replaceable love where sounds fight for ears, yours, to ripple and confess of love.
When your suitcase disappears I am not there to shed tears or wave at you with a smile. I am writing for you here. All of which can attest to the fact I am not shy but embrace love with all the divinity and desires it offers. Love comes to me in different ways; one is in your few lines of dedicating a book to me. You call in your handwritten note for me to get inspiration from the book. I do. I confess out of the book, out of the box, out of those lined cubic houses, and despite the intense complexity of these all I am ambitious to have my hands touched by yours. I will not have to live twice to make up for my mistakes or drink coffee with a thickened taste trying to avoid my weakness for you. The idea itself, to write for you, is a promise into making. A little slip of thoughts, a little touch of flirtation, pieces of writings and a short footage of my life. And here I might say it is strange to write for someone who will not write back. You don’t ask. You don’t need. You don’t want. You don’t estimate the time between this and my next letter to you.
If I walked to the window, or lingered through a dream, if I was to become a ghost of myself or a melting hill, you still would not want to know the reflection of reality and changes that ponder these words. I am misty. You are away and I have no desire to hide. I write and you read. That is the promise of time for now.
When your suitcase disappears I am not there to shed tears or wave at you with a smile. I am writing for you here. All of which can attest to the fact I am not shy but embrace love with all the divinity and desires it offers. Love comes to me in different ways; one is in your few lines of dedicating a book to me. You call in your handwritten note for me to get inspiration from the book. I do. I confess out of the book, out of the box, out of those lined cubic houses, and despite the intense complexity of these all I am ambitious to have my hands touched by yours. I will not have to live twice to make up for my mistakes or drink coffee with a thickened taste trying to avoid my weakness for you. The idea itself, to write for you, is a promise into making. A little slip of thoughts, a little touch of flirtation, pieces of writings and a short footage of my life. And here I might say it is strange to write for someone who will not write back. You don’t ask. You don’t need. You don’t want. You don’t estimate the time between this and my next letter to you.
If I walked to the window, or lingered through a dream, if I was to become a ghost of myself or a melting hill, you still would not want to know the reflection of reality and changes that ponder these words. I am misty. You are away and I have no desire to hide. I write and you read. That is the promise of time for now.
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