We meet halfway every morning.
I walk with the cadence of a Western certainty beating steady.
You walk from the East in a straight, routinely rigid line;
the ritual of heavy smoke being painted on a soft canvas.
In that silent crossing of what awaits,
while you carry your day and I carry mine,
we fill the air with a scent of habit
that bounds us to Time.
And though really, absent we are to one another, we walk the same line.
No. Strangers we are to each other.
And we sit again in our different kind of comfort;
individual, separated, misunderstood. A cohort
of emotions suppressed, deliberately feigned.
And then we lie again to our faith;
deliberate, imaginary, finite.
This pen leaves a scathe
that splits what is real
and what dies with the seal
That is when silence swallows us both.
Strangers to this land we are,
as we travel to our fates.
To each other lovers we are –
who said “Never”.