The closeness a parallel two lines not touching as such for fear of electrocution, running alongside one another, tracks of disciplined journey and moving at exactly the same speed.
Two weeks is all it will take. This makes up for yesterday.
The bed covers lie crumpled, a rest for the neck of the guitar. I kissed you and you shuddered through exhaustion, but I will be there, not as though it is an exam but as though it is something I am party to, provoking and innocent of.
I, just there.
Racing ahead, a little too fierce for plans to understand, the imprint of a letter lies within my notebook and the pleas to the community will be sent. They will take you from me with their donations but again, like the concurrent wires, I understand and we don’t touch.
I will for anger and the desolate touch of rain. I fear that I might actually receive it.
In the gathering clouds that bring the evening closer than usual there is the sign of unwelcome intervention, the space that is required cramped by timetables and compassion, but heed not. We are a tense beyond ourselves and we need not talk.
Words sully the occasion, this occasion, because they turn it from a being into a waiting and there is no need.
We are always waiting, it goes without saying, it goes without speech.