There are essays to write.
And she laughs there, in my mind, which replays today like the best based-on-true-events movie of my life. I say something that could pass for wit, in its little disguise of vernacular, standing alone in its deliberate placement within our conversation. And she laughs. Oh my god, she laughs with me. :):):)
And, you know, half the time I don’t know the difference between what I’m fabricating out of romanticism and what is realistically blowing me over—the true nature of the wind she releases (even in absence) that warms and chills me.
She stays forever laughing there in my head, beauty potted and kept for good or god(ess). As much as I scrape and scratch for other news, other faces and conversations, still she lingers there, paradoxical and strange. She clutches my heart in her hands, some form or part of it, and would readily give it back if she knew or if I agreed to take it. However, the world is clover, and she stands shivering in the winds of my depraved, crazed mind, with her four leaves and an endless supply of wisdom pumping up and down the xylem and phloem.
If I knew a better world for us, I would bring her there. And tell her, maybe. But that’s a dream, and there are essays to write.