Her:
All has happened before
My dear
Perhaps
many many before befores.
Patterns always repeat.
Rewind.
Replay.

She:
But where is the Record button?
Surely it must be here.
Someplace.
Somewhere.
Must be.

As the world returns
     to 'go' again
and silent spaces
resume their noise

Questions query whether
     wise or foolish
     to so proceed
     to open house?
    
Foresight
     drips along,
     seamless cloudy
     be the forecast,
So quite unable
     to perceive
     beyond the morrow.

Only hindsight holds the insight
And
     always
     always
comes too late.

What you say?
no sense
in mumble-words

Can’t find the way
knowing not
where to fly

Or
perhaps
just too tired
to decipher
the what you say
and the silence
of what you don’t say

So she pondered:
have I given up
will I wake the morrow
     wishing I hadn't?
the spark darkened
the weariness conquering
     slipping me
     into that blank space
with no walls
no windows
no doors
just empty

Twist and turn
        now don’t you burn
jus’ moved so quick
        felt loved-sick
Didn’t know
       that one kiss
       would be so missed
Now left
       wondering
‘bout the hurt
‘n the burn.

Try do I
Not to remember. Not to sad. Not to cry.
But on occasion,
when the sky blue blossoms
        with sunshine’s warmth
Memory slips her sweet arms 'round me
And I feel again…
        the beauty of dune grass
        tufted on white sand dunes,
        Mother ocean
        singing in her rhythmic roar,
        crashing her surf up
        on the sand.
Beautiful.
Beautiful to tears.
The so-so-much
of you
I miss.