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.
