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

of Never.


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”.



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