Is it regret? Is it mourning the loss? Is it the acceptance of the absence of what was? Or is it rebellion against that reality? I guess it does not matter by which name you call the empty longing that has curled inside of me.
This emptiness is the hair-shiirt that is woven from your wild curls that I must wear.
And your beauty is the alter that makes every pilgrimage worth the climb and the miles crossed. The sound of your voice is the siren call that would have me gladly dashed upon the rocks. It is your strength and the way that you look at the world that shifts the sands under my feet.
Still it is the lines of your white limbs, the round of your bum, and the arch of your back… it is the bright of your eye, the pierce of your smile, and the changing of your eyes… it is the softness of your cheek, the hardness of muscle and sinew, and the universe of freckles… it is this and so much more that are the measure that none can attain. There is no other mountain or shore that has any hold; all paths head only towards you or some mirage of you
And I will forever be an Odysseus that can never reach his home.
The Man in the Station
