indigo. . .

I think it’s Winter, the bitter cold and wind whipped hair that makes me remember her. The date that still throbs in my memory is coming again. You’d think after so long I (we) could just let go, move on, forget the past, blah blah blah, but almost daily something passes my eyes, my neck, my lips, my sense of smell or self. . .something that reminds me of her.

Yes, it’s the cold that does it, when my neck feels empty from a scarf worn long ago, and just as quickly lost, which I never did retrieve, as hard as I tried.

Now a dozen wishes upon a million stars can’t seem to change the path we’re on. Sometimes I feel like I could reach across the distance, which isn’t really so far, is it honey? I could reach across and somehow my fingertips could grasp the tip of her wicked little tongue, and I could control her words like some erotic ventriloquist, and make her say the handful of syllables that would release her to me. We would meet on some street somewhere, and each step would be energized and driven, pulling each other to the point of combustion where finally our lips would meet again, solidifying that which we both know is true.

At this point in our lives. . .sometimes the secret is unbearable.