What I thought was forty-one was thirty-four. What I thought
was thirty-four were my twenties. What I thought were my twenties
was a paradise of lawless love — and love. What I thought
was a lustful energy were cold songs playing loudly
in a one-eyed vision, some echo from a time before time
when we agreed to see each other only through agreed upon mosses,
a deal in which I could not abide. What I thought was my hand
was a Luke-warm stream tumbling over the jagged rocks of a waterfall.
I was only here one time. What I thought was my youth
left me by a pond downstream, and a thousand years old. I’ve seen
this before, this longing. It’s nothing more than an illusion,
nothing which can’t be heightened — or indulged
brought to truth by enlightenment. What we think of
as the world in front of us swims behind our eyes. What we long for
is our own voice rung through the ears of a lover — when we are elsewhere,
a voice to confirm the beauty of our existence. What I thought were my eyes
were your eyes. What I thought was a body — melted into spirit.
What I conceived of when netted in my own devices
was a whiff of perfume that skipped me like a stone and left me
on the opposing shore. What I found there — what
I believed to be our first time was our first time.