falta

the night got cold and wet and it was not our fault.
everything that we had borrowed was places in bags and was waiting by the door while we slept.
and the trees were still waiting for us outside, hoping that we would wake up soon.
this was far, a night spent far away, and the night went on for months, and at the end i couldn't remember what it was like not to miss you.
there was a lack that opened up when i met you, something larger than i had suspected, and larger than i would still let on, even at the end of all the time spent inside, waiting for the wind to change.
and in between, there were hopeful words, and i thought they meant waiting for you, and maybe they do, but they also taught me how to wait for something with hope.
it's a strange season, one where sea monsters keep trying to find their way into my fingertips, and tell me in dreams that we missed something important back there.
but we didn't miss a thing.
because while we were sleeping the things of the desert continued to grow, waiting to surprise us on one morning.
and you brought sweet music to my ears when i couldn't see past all the speaking subjectivities and the impossibility of signs.
and you taught me how to cherish something that i couldn't put into words.
and the night gets colder and wetter, and i can't find my things, not in time, not in time to get out the door.
and i'm pulled back to the bed where sea monsters sing me the same story, about the hundred ways i want you, and the hundred things that are still between us.
and the gypsy spirit who keeps me writing secrets that are no more, no less innocent than a dance that plays in time.
and i'm distracted by the hundred lines i forgot to write, by the slant of the words you remembered to write, and all the things that still remain unsaid.
and that same lonely song about wanting to know someone from the inside out.
and theories about what a revolution would mean on this ground.
and the weight of the burden to turn a life of longing into something like art, an act of loving to flatter the art of loving, and the things we could speak, the ways we could speak each other back out into the cold and wet morning, a potion for the tongue, something to untie it, something that works like a charm.

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