it’s strange you never knew

rising away from a place
where leaves stand still
like singing without words
and humming with a tune
of the space turning
out over the in of the
leg tossing the wayward
thought about sin
while our eyes look
at a picture of your eyes
and you are neither happy
nor sad nor content
nor unfulfilled
nor satisfied nor
complacent nor
apathetic nor
lost nor unhappy
but you are breathing
whilst mixed up in a net of
beats and hymns
and plans drawn slyly
in the sand of conjecture
and wishing the wish
to be a reality
but knowing that in a
sea of time and history
and gifts made for a
future that is a present
in the middle, or is it
the end, or perhaps the middle of the
beginning that steals
us away across that night where
the salt freezes to pavement
and we think of spring while
laying our hair against hair
against skin against the irises
that know there is a fleck of
truth in beauty and simplicity
has a place in as many worlds
that easily exist from here.