Unbroken, eternal, a series of points,
joined at the hip, what a trip.
Minute differences, missed by the
human eye, they are there, just the same.

What a shame.

Was it like this before I touched it, before I was almost
touched
by you, travelling on parallels lines, just out of reach.
What a trip, joined at the hip,
a series of points, eternal, unbroken.

What a crying shame.

I keep one eye on you and one eye on my line,
I do not, I can not afford to lose track of either,
For what if the distance between us shrinks and
we
meet
or if they cross and we have a chance and a choice.

To share, space, time, breath, touch, all with out
words or with more words than I have spilled tears,
listen to the other talk in that intimate moment of
the embrace that will never last long enough.

What a dying shame.

Any time we spend, even within in sight,
should be enough to satisfy, our emptiness, right?
Oh these parallel lines keep us together and apart,
please, if we meet, let me feel and share your,
beating
heart.

Mine isn't doing so well,
just now,
it was
broken,
some how, I can't stop for long,
as it might.

STOP

And never start again,
these parallel lines,
are now not grooves,

But the very graves,
where we will lie,
in parallel. Even ever after.


©DWE072013