I remember you telling me that if I ever changed my mind, you were a phone call away.
I pick up my phone every day and contemplate if I should just call you and tell you how much I miss you, that I miss how we were, that I want you back and would do anything to have "us" again.
But for some reason
I just
Can't.

Don't put him through that hurt again
Don't play with his heart
Don't **** with his feelings
Get it together
You did this
*Deal with it

i listen to all these
dying cadences, these internal convocations that i,
dazed into the fullness of flesh
and realness of bones and their
fantasized congregations on
my body,
these whispers recollecting
sobriquets that in oneness,
shall unashamedly endure ---

this tough call
singular in silence and in tenderness,

that in this readiness
you will give back what is mine
to own

these sudden and indelible
thrusts, these nebulous stares
that pulse with the life of
stars, and the ineffable echoes
of your caves that summon
my foolishness - these vibrant nightingales in hiding!

one day I'll be the right person at the right time.

The first thing I remember is breathing under water.
And what do you remember, dear and distant friend?

Lifetimes, braided together like blessed challah bread,
are intertwined, one into the next, sometimes glimpsed.

Living so differently, in music, through earthquakes and
tidal waves, we visit from one time into another,
to learn, to see life through one heart, our one unbounded
mind, the one universal soul that inhabits us all.

I have heard it said that after our ten thousandth lifetime
we can go home to our limitless beginnings.

Are we ready, dear, and distant friend?
Are you? Am I?

The days are getting shorter.
We see it first
in the color of the light.
The moon is waning.
It's time to dream
other dreams.
Or maybe eat a fried egg.

Murmurings of words
so long unspoken,
now sent out across
the curved expanse
of our spherical home.
Murmurings of all our
voices and languages,
coalesced into one.
Winging out into open
space, like the nimble
murmurations of birds,
never quite touching,
yet deftly creating
virtual shapes,
markings recognizable
only from a distance.
Do birds' own souls
unfurl and unfold in
these undulations?
Starlings find aerial
corridors, travelling
together swiftly, so
to stay warm. Do we?
These murmurings,
our word-murmurations,  
fly out into the space between us,
swiftly curving back, and then back again,
before dipping low, then nesting deeply,
so very deeply, into sweetest sleep.