It is a dance,
A longing
Set to the rhythm,
The nuance of
Furtive glances,
Unspoken words,
Chance encounters,
Innumerable coincidences
And a terrible solitude
Of the soul.

As these things accumulate,
It begins
Like embers given life
By a soft breeze.

But the second it is touched
It turns to sand
And slips through
The cracks of the heart.
One figures out
That something so fragile
Cannot exist.

Cherished memories
Rendered
Shameful,
To be suffered
In private.

I have known
no loneliness
like that of
a Saturday night.

My ceiling is
an off white.

I do not dare
go back to sleep.

I am awake
and in the realm
where you are real.

My thoughts
whirl about
like a sudden
gust.

You are
to me,
as the restless wind
is to the
petals of a flower;

fleeting,
out of reach,
ungraspable.

We are all capable
of blissful tenderness,
we are all
lovers
waiting for Spring,
to bloom with
the flowers.

Cloaked with
a false sense
of dignity
and importance,
I convince myself,
halfheartedly,
that if I can last
just one more night,
everything
will fall into place.

But with the dew,
the morning sun
evaporates
each drop of hope
I had mustered
in secret.  
Today
is the same as yesterday,
perhaps a little
worse.

I slip slowly
into irrelevance,
into the night
which I struggle with,
the night which
I now know well.