(found floating in the water beneath a bridge, floating in the rays of shining sunlight)
I think this is it. Isn’t it? Don’t you think?
I don’t know where it came from, nor do I feign to comprehend where it may go, but it is here. Isn’t it? Don’t you feel it?
I have so much difficulty turning away. I have so much trouble just going forward, living on to the next moment because – here, now – well, it may just be too much.
Is it though? Because I don’t think so. I can’t imagine more, and – yes – I’m terrified of less.
It all started when the sun was out that morning about six months ago. The window was open, and a breeze flowed into the kitchen, carrying the scent of lavender and lilacs and the songs of birds. I looked across the table. I don’t know if I’ve seen anything since. I don’t care if I have or haven’t, either.
It was breakfast, and we were eating cereal. We were eating cereal with milk. But with the sun streaming in and the lilacs and the lavender, that was the best meal I’ve ever eaten.
I think that was it. Wasn’t it? Don’t you think?
I mean – I just…well, but.
Wasn’t there poetry here? What happened to it? And the call-and-response? Wasn’t there? Didn’t you think?
I just – well, I just…but.
I cannot write this any longer, and I wish that you were here.