Thursday of the Year

We were dancing,

We were singing, 

Rolling about in soft,

Swept sand.

Rolling around in

That endless bond.

So we were talking,

And we were staring,

Upwards into endless plain,

Dotted with wisps of cloud,

Painted from the artist’s palm.

If we were dancing, still,

And we were singing, 

We could pick apart,

Apart the same,

Very shells. 

Shades of pearl,

And shades of grey,

And maybe shades of coral.

Resting within your hand,

The faint scratches that stain carmine.

This moment which rests in my head,

I wish to capture, picture box, and with motion,

Lulling patterns of alternating green-blue and white foam,

An array stretched far into nevermore, disappearing in the midst of the horizon,

With that miniature ball of fire, peeking from behind the curtain screen,

You and me left voiceless in the presence of the grand unknown,

So what if we were back to talking, to one another, 

And back to holding, crossing our fingers. 

In this moment that I remember,

In this moment that lasts forever,

Still sitting in that pine chair,

I’m standing alone.

The distance seems smaller,

Fire now ever so tender, 

With no one to dance with, 

Voices fading meekly,

With no one to sing.

Leaving behind the mortal shell,

I peel and scab with fresh carmine wounds,

And I paint the skies a muted coral.

You were laughing,

I was watching, 

Maybe tomorrow, 

I’ll see you again. 

In that plain so far away,

Made of wisps of cloud.