Soliloquizing for Her
In case you ask how long there has been or will be between us,
I’d forestall you with an answer, as I,
An inchworm and otaku of imagination, have never hoped to measure time.
Many, if counted by year or season,
When flowers have bloomed full and returned to buds burgeoning again,
And leaves have fallen and grown back to the twigs,
While their varying smells keep refreshing my want of you.
More, if by month, for the slow changes
In temperature of the air and shape of things, which would pass
Mostly unnoticed before you dwell like a rowan tree in the field of my vision,
Since I did not need to tell
By association with anything that makes sense to you.
My digits are not enough to count the weeks, when time is partitioned
By working days and the day-offs, out of the latter
Of which may be extracted a few hours out of routine for us,
Alone. You and me (and a little art in this),
And the moments registered by pulsations of and in body
And impulsiveness out of habit, conditioned responses of eros,
As if we alternately feed a piece of wood to the fire when we are
Lying there, face to face, half-chatting, half-sleeping, with the fire in-between;
And there and then we turn and twist, tucking in and loosening our blankets,
To find the most comfortable position between warmth and burn.
By now, nothing can be counted.
One moment may stand for eternity, if eternity means
Boundlessness or infinity, for moments are never measured by how long they last.
A moment is often out of time
But cannot be lengthened along the current of the everyday
To provide us another life.
We live the life of ours as lived by others, and we selfishly live in moments,
For numerous times, and yet we have only one life to love.
March 9, 2009