Each passing day
is a step down
an ever diverging
trail.

Is it useless
to wonder
if these winding paths
ever cross?

How many
will see me again?
How many
promises will be
kept?

Between the moment that passes
and the moment to come
I am stuck
in the immeasurable present.

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.