You, of flesh and bone and hair of gold that I could almost touch, are but an image, a spirit in transition at the short intersection of my and your life // our life that never is.

The drifting of the I - its realities and realisations, are brightened by a smile;
a ghost or nymph or angel - any flattering insult we might use with people who nonetheless are, who ever are -for now at least, seer- hidden from our curiosities - only revealed at the superficial glimpses of our lovelorn, life-numbed consciousness.

The projection of beauty, perfection and weakness into a face, by which we hide even further the only things we should value in the self perceived in others. But how could we know, the only connection is light travelling from the friendly lips to each others eyes carrying the cultural meanings I would only like to read on the night/sky-hope interface.

And however lost I am in my daydreams, and however I ridicule them at day, I'd still walk all the steps down and through the seven gates of the netherworld, so you might walk free again. But you are no goddess of love and war, no divine prisoner, you are as mortal as my dreams and we are not friends in life.

Still, as far as transitions carry, another (they're all the same?) war god's day has recreated a new beauty of being. Counting once up and once down is more than enough to lift my spirits - they end up in senseless combinations of words - a thing we do not share. Ours is a silent communication, slight movements of the facial muscles and already the carried meaning is so erringly construed in my mind.

But passing things, even though they may last, bring scars and marks and memories. And the longer days, and forever nights are lovely in being, but imagined or remembered only the burden is left. I may be meek and dishonest, but each time my world finds its beauty again coincides with the short seconds it takes for you to pass me and take notice so kindly. And the moments will end, but must that be the crossroads? I do not know, and yet there is no doubt of it.

The roads are long, and company is often lacking, yet at hand. How many perfect seats would we find alone in this night's dusk, noise and smoke. Each corner cafe and new ambient-designed bar would eagerly host our minutes and hours, cups and glasses, of sitting, talking, being.

And then again comes sleep. Saves from thoughts that dwell on the insecurities of the inaction we call life. And brings a reality more strange and illusory than any of my daydreams.

I forgive myself childish hopes in believing that rearranging words may change, how I perceive my self. That something would be different when the words run dry.

The direction of my journey has yet to be decided, and I know I should ask you, where we are going.



\\ Has been a long silence again. Not only on my part... A new experiment. Writing what needs to be written instead of what I should be writing.