On her birthday

I called down to say hello. The conversation held the tone which suggested a deep understanding of some kind of embedded feeling that was brewing, embedded, and had yet to surface, like a pot of thick liquid that had yet to boil. She spoke of the events leading up to now, how things have and have not changed and I mentioned the probability of a fall visit. I was always mentioning the facts and figures of Us. How this was something that could be cultivated, the ways in which we could overcome our simple problem of distance, timing, lingering undefined. What’s interesting is knowing that we both knew that we didn’t need one another, we simply wanted.

John sang out, “New word for old desires,” and that put quickness in our breath, a haste to act, but we didn’t. I couldn’t.

Late at night, later this night, tomorrow and earlier in the evening for the rest of this season I will turn down my light, blow out the candles I lit and feel, but never admit to the shame of knowing that I could have always had what I wanted. Or, I could tear this page from the printer, trash it, and just speak up. Because I know you’ve be listening and I know that no matter how far we feel, in this age we are close enough to have no excuse to complain about being apart. It’s your birthday, and I know you’re at the door, dressed all pretty waiting for me pull to the curb. Oh, Honey, I’m coming.