FLIPPING THE HOURGLASS

Once I wrote,

‘Soul mates are a dime a dozen’

She thought I was being cute.

Now, I wait with 47 cents

On the table in front of me

Alone

The phone

Staring a hole in my discontent.

Three hundred pages

Of correspondence later

Pointed texts, endless letters,

Ribald transcriptions of phone sex

Chats

Exposure

Healing

Laughter

Angst

Learning

Shared perspective

Mystic longing

Gathering dust motes

Embellishing

The memory of

Yearning

With unneeded questions

The currency of unrequited

Co-existence.

Someday

Our story will be told

For now

I cling to it

With the fingers

Of a madman

Clawing at it’s radiant

Fuzziness

Desperate

For the sand

To not slip my grasp.

~ for Cami, August 1, 2011 - Big Bear City, 2 a.m.