Perched on the kitchen counter,
legs a-dangling
you talk with me into your night
glass of wine slowly emptying
and words pouring out a-tumble
now and then interfoliated
with Kleenex leaves falling silently.

We touch the deeper things
of illusions lost and worldviews shattered
shards of broken glass cutting
hands still hanging on, not letting go as yet,
because the pain of loss at least is real
and closed-out numbness, post-op silence
is worse than tears of separation.

I go with you on mindwalks
along the beach and shore
and listen as you talk into the wind
and add your saltness to the sea
I lend my arm and shoulder
allowing that you reel and falter in your step
aware that stronger arms than mine
are holding us from underneath.

We talk of hair and baldness
skimming over raw emotions with amiable banter
but we know that we are touching base
and feeding something deep within
that wishes we had met a zillion heartbeats ago
when we were still young
and could have perched together on any kitchen counter
not yet dispersed enough by life itself,
to sit each of us quietly and sadly on our own.

Worlds of glass are in between
and words of icy cold shutter out the needed sun
and I walk here and you walk there
each spinning in our own treadmill wheel.
What will it take to break the distances apart enough
so that we can find the space to be together
for each other's sake, and for our own?


You sleep in time
curled up into your waterbed
housedog curled into your back
while I go about my pleasant
but disturbing promised chore
catching those passing moments
solidifying them for now at least
with tiny words etched into a cyber sky.