Today’s dusk cooled down bigly
after last night’s torrential rains and wind. I imagine
that she drives by as I’m sitting on the hood of my car,
imagining the Amazon,
listening to the trill of a Musician Wren.
In a quantum instant connection
every line I could imagine
rolls off my tongue.
Shyness vanishing, like night clouds
over the edge of town.
The guards have left their posts
while our armaments were down.
But the fabric of time ripples
to the winds of “might have been’s,”
…which still may never.
For we cannot disrupt a promise
owed to another — for the price
of a “goodbye” again.
I write anonymously into the ether
in hopes I am read by anon.
Words like bright lanterns seeking love, which
also cast love’s shadows,
onto a reluctant realist — a poetic con.
The deeper I search, I follow myself
over waterfalls, into the mysteries of the Amazon.
A dear friend is one who can fill in the blanks
of the stories we try to tell—
the exaggerated truths,
the travelogues of journey’s not taken,
and the lies we try to dispel.
