“Caspar David Friedrich – Wanderer above the sea of fog” by Caspar David Friedrich – The photographic reproduction was done by Cybershot800i. (Diff). Licensed under Public Domain via Wikimedia Commons.
The Fading moments of Now.
I wrote those words three years ago
and two months ago
I listened to that song, then. Then, I forgot that song entirely.
We—you and I—have met well, these past few months
One day, we went up to a wedding. The next morning, driving down from the mountains, you played that song as we descended back into our daily lives. And I did not remember knowing that song—and yet, again, three years and two months later…it was the best moment of my day. For I had known that song, back then, and imagined you.
And yet you are real.
These past months, I felt love, again. I am grateful to you for the feeling of it. My love was not for you: I do not know you, yet—but my awakened heart was thanks to your kindness.
But my respect for your space, ultimately, was not met with respect. You filled your space—your sad heart you filled with your happy youth. And that is as youth does.
And still I tried to give you more space. I drew sadness into myself and let go of our momentary joy. It drained out of me like life’s blood. I laughed less and less.
And now I do not even want you. Our goodbye, for now, is tonight—and I can not find any enthusiasm for seeing you.
It is sad, I guess—but what is sadder than sad is this feeling of nothing where my heart should be. That is sad, and beautiful. And I feel nothing.
It is time to go for a long green walk in the faded heat of the early summer’s afternoon with my eager white and caramel spotted Red dog.
It is time to listen to that song again, and jump up, and shout, and laugh, and cry! For Nature will give me feeling again, where I have given up.
As I wrote, two years ago:
I would like to love you, but I do not know you, and I value space more than even love, for in space we can play. I would make a fort in our cabin out of sheets and we can go inside and just lie there. I am looking at you, into you, and you are looking at me, into me. And we could read a paperback. I have a good reading voice. And we could have a fire, though it is not cold, but it would light up the fort, flickering, warmly, with shadows of our future. I would like to love you and you love me, for love can only be shared, but my luck does not run that way, these days, or for awhile, and I have a feeling that I will not love and be loved again until all my luck is run out.
And my luck now is all run out—for meeting you was great luck and losing what I never had—you—has left me with less than nothing.
And my luck is all run out, now.
Real is better than imaginary.