I would still feel the way I do,
and I would still try to somehow explain it to you.
Slowly they come. Slowly I write,
day by day
star by star.
A clock measuring down
slicing time into pieces so that our perception of what is happening
is not felt like the strike of a match where the scent of phosphor hints at its existance before it is fed into a flame that can only burn as long as its stick will allow.
And you know that its life is short. Time measures that for us. The scent of phosphor, even shorter.
It's almost like experiencing them simultaneously because
time does not splice them in our perceptions
like it will do to us. We are experiencing life slower than a match strike.
But matches or not, you are becoming more like the smoke. Harder to feel. Harder to see. Your presence hints at the existence of a palpable thing,
the stick, once shared until time measured to snuff us out.
You see, if we could slow down time enough to see what that flame was actually doing to the phosphor and the stick, then I might be able to explain the transformation that took place.
In that fire, it would look like this:
A summer blazed through, to a quiet day where the humming of change was in the air. An ignition of energy burst through the endless leaves of green and naked skin, where hammocks swung in solstice and greener pastures rocked us silently to giggle fits of infinity.
With autumn leaves falling at your back, you would chase the summer west.
And as your shadow fades into the orange glow of the california sunset flowers you once knocked at my door,
I would sing for you fresh peaches wearing the fuzzy skins of sun kissed forebitten flesh.
I would sing for you late night, backyard crickets in symphony with dancing porch-top turtles
I would sing for you fields running playfuls of enlightened laughter
until the end of your stick, my match. And when my songs are only whispers weaving in your smoke,
even without words,
I still feel the way I do.