Time is turning so short and it feels like I am back in Malabar watching you create. Games and play with a bright Scottish sun.
There is deep happiness in this unbalanced setting, these smiles of yours when you are opening to the outside even for brief moments before shutting down the leaded door. I live for these smiles and in my quietest moments I digest this bliss you generously let me have.
Europe…I chose to be here but this time and place is not mine, I can’t adapt to the old world. What is done shouldn’t be ahead. The circle has been complete and repeated several times and I feels outside of my life, always did here. Not myself entirely, like distant bits and pieces of my identity, orbiting around the mother board but barely rubbing it in their whirl: No sparks, no flares except from your presence.
I want to advance, move, fly in a direct line but it is not my call and I can only float like a drifting object. How old am I? I do not feel it. I do know how desolate from tenderness it will be no matter what direction the winds are taking me. But it scares me no more except when my eyes caresses your distant hand then I accept being swallowed by the big deep, the dark silence of the void.
Twirling to you and from you, back and forth as a giant lung, long distant breath, one at the time, close and far, expending and shrinking in the palace of our dreams.