The way your breath rests upon my lips.
The way a sense of stale and dry
can stick, like tacks, to uncountable
lives, transparent from their
carbon copied claims and
violating all emotion.
If we had found this at different times,
on different days,
I know we would have ignored;
sung different songs, written different poems.
And I know there is a friendship I
have made with a person I thought
I’d never meet.
But it has come to this. The songs you’ve
sung are now purer and the poem
on the page has been made sweeter.
The places we’ve loved are now behind.
The miles between songs and poems
are now smaller.
And while we feel dry inside the distance,
driven to create worlds we haven’t seen,
we think of what we may touch
and what emotion will carry us there,
believing that stale and dry will evaporate
with the next finger touch
with the next stroke of a pen,
as if to say–creation without you
is commonplace–is regarded as
nonexistent. Eye to eye, to feel
the walls begin to crumble between
our lives and those we strive to live.
–Published in Touchstones, Fall 1999