You can hear the wind coming from the lake waltzing through your crazy hair, the rustle of my light dress against the old gnarled planks of the patio, the complaining songs of the locusts in the distance and the flipping of cards in the stifling heat of the summer afternoon. You’d do a lot of tarot readings about my stories, and then about yours, and then about all of the people we see from the heights of Orbit Nest, with those well-chosen, soft spoken words of yours.
(We can see them running around, like ants going about their days, without knowing they are being watched, without a clue or a care in the world.)
Then I’d start to speak to make you laugh or sing to make you smile. Then I’d shut up and you’d go where ever you go when my mind starts to wanders. Not so far, so you can retrieve me, but not so close so I can touch the illusion of solitude. You disappeared as many times before, leaving a bitter imprint of togetherness.
When you come back for a quick kiss, I’m amazed that the sun is set and the stars are out. I’m amazed that you are still here “light as a breeze..”
“and the blessings come from heaven”
“and for something like a second”
“I’m cured and my heart is at ease.”