My Processing
Returning home on a cold, late winter night,
to unpack, and order my house again.
Plants have died, dust has gathered.
I both drag my feet and jump right in,
having always felt the need to move on from
these still moments
fueled by a fear of the unknown.
And i note:
There is nothing necessary,
beyond the moment,
when i am with you.
But, this is not the mystery.
How some people complete us
beyond words,
well, that's a very old story.
Still, it is no mystery.
There is yet a pile of laundry to be done,
and papers to be sorted.
My calendar for the next two weeks fills.
I wrestle with both malaise and anticipation,
over the effort and energy
required to maintain my schedule
in the coming weeks.
And I realize:
I am not in the category of person
who appends their life
to another's.
Again, this is not the mystery.
How certain people have a void,
filled by others -
well, that's not our story,
nor does it interest me.
Truly, no great mystery.
I resume my headlong rush into the details
and logistics of my daily life.
No fear, here, I just move on now.
I recognize:
Although I have no promise of a tomorrow with you,
I wouldn't have asked, had it occurred to me.
Because, somehow,
i just know.
Yes/No - it wouldn't matter, I'd still feel you.
That is the real mystery.
