Space and time converge on a daily basis creating that moment that
we feel, that we want to have, that we look forward to, that
falls somewhere between us and them and always always and
anyways marks the line between the here and the now.

She wrote and I wrote and in there someplace was a lost
minute gone begging for meaning without recourse, without mention
of reality but guessed to be enough to bridge the deep chasm,
the crack in our mutual facade; our motives-movements-madness.

He made the mistake of stepping closer to familiar, closer to the
line between them…looking up and down the silent border, wondering
at the insistence of society to keep them watching from heavily
fortified battlements, from shielded thoughts and dreams.

She forgot that substance doesn’t travel well, that meaning once laid
open for autopsy is nothing but a shadow, a past memory used
to create the present idea…the current strategy…that moment’s madness
and she retreated to recreate the dream.

Reality hovers; waiting to fall across (as a shadow) on emotional topologies
yet to be charted, mapped, discovered but always forming and
reforming as the tide sucks loose sand from here to there, from
the top to the bottom…from him to her.

Two spheres orbiting within the same gravitational well, the same special
darkness bereft of logic yet altogether representative of decisions
made motioned monitored toward understanding where we are, where
the shadow of reality can be seen in contrast to the dark.

Once, a split moment and flash of brilliance and then…once touching, the
spheres continue their trajectories, continue fortification toward another
converged moment, another hidden dream, another deep chasm
un-bridged and waiting for the insistence of society to subside.