breathing alone...still breathing...

Sometimes it seems this is the life I was meant to acquire. A life without a body to crawl up next to nor the warmth of her flesh nor her cheek that finds mine in the night nor our lips that meet. Not even the ache of a heart when fate throws us miles apart. Not beautiful memories. Not rest from arid life. Not. No, not that. Are lips there to dry and crack and turn salt-white as a vast ocean of dust? Are lips there to sleep alone? The breathing weakens as night turns into deep sleep.

I have met someone, her face angelic and refined as honesty more than ancestry will create it. I have met someone who lives this parallel world next door, and you would not believe this stranger is familiar and essential and so me if I was not and so good and responsive and so listening and needing more because there is always more and so memorable and wondering those same things I do. I have met someone. Has she met me?

And still the heart sleeps.

And still it sleeps.

And it sleeps.

John.