Sailing
hair playing with the wind
smiling with the freedom
of the uncaged
And I imagine if she thinks of me at all
it's without regret,
or only with the regret of the bank employees of Norrmalmstorg
or with the pure hatred of the barefoot and married.
She spins around in my mind
the whirling dervish that remains when love dies
and I realize
I'd put all of my faith and hope in her
and when she sprouted wings
those fragile eggs fell from the basket of her womb
and spilled on the ground.
And when she rose I fell into an abyss so deep
it might as well have been the sky.
And so I suppose we are both sailing now.
- July 31st, 2010, 5:45 a.m.
