Driving east

Driving east along the Trans-Canada, the St. Lawrence river shines silver-blue surrounded by fields of green and the blue high hills in the distance. The hum of tires, rush of wind, and our playlist fill the space in the car. It feels as though I am standing still and the earth, roads and miles move beneath me, slowly pulling the scenery past me.

I am afraid to hope - and I am afraid to give up hope. There is a hole in me and I am set adrift..

I am putting physical distance between us at a time when I want to rush to you. I could drive until I fall off the edge of the earth and it wouldn't feel any further than our emotional distance. Maybe you need the physical distance - maybe I need it. Maybe it is better this way - I don't know.

Three provinces, a great lake, rivers, and countless miles - half a country between us and I fear that I couldn't feel further from you than if I was standing beside you.. The difference is that if I was standing beside you, there is a chance that the distances would slowly vanish and that this canyon between us could be crossed.

I know what I want. I want to take you home. I want to sit on the couch, hold your hand, look into your eyes, see your face - and talk. I want to feel the distance vanish and to know the closeness that we once felt. I want to know that you have missed me as much as I have missed you. I want you to want us to work again. I want to heal. But what I want doesn't really matter.

I will spend they dying days of summer in a beautiful, peaceful place. I will walk on wet sand, bending to dig with my bare hands and pluck the gift of clams from the sand. I will lay on white sandy beaches and look out into the sparkling blue ocean. The sun and wind will turn my skin red and the sand will harden my hands and feet. I will spend a few days in this paradise alone - but you will be in my thoughts. What happens when I see you next - the where and when of how that happens, and whatever follows beyond that - will be up to you.

Me.

To The Lady on the Train,

I miss you.

The Man in the Station

Where the Magic is...

Angel,

There are many different kinds of magic. There is the kind of magic that belongs to a place. You can feel the hum of it through your feet when you stand on the earth. You can feel it swirling around you through an open window when you stand in the kitchen of a house with beautiful bones. You can feel it and know that in this place, anything might happen. Whatever ghosts or history you may have brought with you into this place, will soon be dispelled.. In this magical place, a new life is possible...

There is also the kind of magic that people possess - and the truly magical do not wield their magic. It simply spills out and follows them around as if they have filled their pockets full of sand. It will trail behind and cloud around them and change the world as they move through it - settling on everything they touch.

We have stood in such places and felt the presence of the magical people who inhabited the place. We have been lifted and seen the world through other eyes with wonder. We have layed on a bed where light bent and splinted into colours, landing on objects familiar and strange. We breathed in the swirling dust of magic and felt the hum and music. And we learned in that magical place that there is a strength in our hearts that surprised us.

Sometimes those places are lost to us and we fear that the magic is dispelled and dispersed. But magical people always seem to find magical places - an internal divining rod... There is a place of magic that feels like home though it isn't. There is a place where only happiness can bubble up - and an ease of being exactly where you are... Like all such places, there is order and there is chaos. There is smooth and rough. There is dazzling light and dark so black you cannot see. And there is great beauty.

Though you were not there, I took your hand and walked with you up the path toward the hardwood hills. We walked among the tall straight trees and through meadows, waist high in wild flowers and ferns. We stood by the ruins of the original homestead and felt the ghost of those who lived their lives there - toiling and laughing through joy and hardship. The earth holds their memory and we trod the same paths. Later, in a night so black that I could not see, I lay in a bed where we had once made love. I could feel the memory of you beside me in the dark. This place would be a place of love for us, I have no doubt. The magic is not lost to us - it has changed a little - but it would swirl around us, familiar as a scent. I will try to bring some back, filled in a pocket...

Just me.

A dream

I had a dream. I had a dream that I woke to an orange coloured morning - the sun slanting in the window an falling across your white and freckled shoulder. The sheets are kicked down to our waists and bunched under the cats at or feet.

I am awake and have the luxury of watching you sleep. The rise and fall of your chest, the puff of breath after you've held it... a twitch. A tangle of hair on the pillow and the softness of your form molded to me. With a finger I trace the line of you from just behind your ear, along your neck, across your shoulder, down the strength of your back, and finally over the gentle slopes of your hips... your straight lines and arcing curves: your soft skin and hard bone and muscle... I am tempted to explore your back, shoulders, legs... to follow freckles and patterns and lines of you.. to trace your spine from the hidden place under the curls of your hair to the sensitive area of your tailbone.. I am tempted, but I would disturb your sleep...

And so with the slant of light coming in through the window and you nestled so close against me, I slowly moved to the edge of the bed to get up. In your sleep, you notice the change in temperature? in touch? With a cat like stretch you settle and curl further into the pillow.. I will busy myself with the slow motions of making weekend coffee and breakfast. I will busy myself and wait to bring you breakfast in bed.

My World

To The Lady on the Train,

I cannot give you the whole world, but I will give you my whole world.

The Man in the Station.