Why Hello Goodbye

I fear that when I say "my love" I'm speaking to a ghost about folklore. It isn't crying over spilled milk, when you're not holding the carton. We sit at the table with chips piled high and it's in your cards, but I busted. It's my crop in my field on your farm. I'll raise it only to raze it in the end. A crop for the fire. So let's gather it, and we can heap it, and light it to dance around it. We are the halo to the light tonight. Let the fired warmth soothe our skin covering the ache in the bone. Cast upon the fire all the unwanted and undesirable anchors we hold onto. If you can for the night forget the chains imbedded in our skin so can I. I will dance in our tears of joy and grief, as awkward as my conjured thoughts. In the mud we move until the cold of the night creeps over the dance floor eventually drowning the fire.

Alternatives help us judge life like a fuel gauge, so you can conceive how much better it'd be if  I didn't know differently. As I fall asleep next to the smoke and hisses I know I'm getting there. There isn't enough tomorrow for today. I've spent enough time in the company of hunger, exhaustion, worry, and illness. Seasons have an ending, but these hang around like lost children. Orphans given up by others crowd in my shadow, laying claim to their home. Their jaded eyes peek through their window at the evening activities. My eyes are clouded to the color of tomorrow. I see enough heartache behind me for all the beards on the porch in the rocking chairs. I see only trouble ahead of me. Thirty-seven and counting.

As I lie awake in the cold, cloudy, rainy sunrise none of them seem that bad anymore. Like a golfer I take par on this course called life. I want less of the same and more of that health and wealth; please deliver it in stealth. I joyously and longingly watched it fall on others like a blanket of fresh snow, so I still hold on. The lottery ticket prayer uttered without warning is: deliver me or scorch the earth.

I begin to see now

I begin to see now
the meaning of you,
or perhaps it is
another beginning
one of uncountable many

The way you take me inside
Warmth, dwelling
Liquid bed of seeing
with eyes shut tight.

There is so little time for this
Perhaps at the end we will
have properly begun
to know the contours,
and the language of being

Together.