whose woods these are I think I know.
his house is in the village, though;
he will not see me stopping here
to watch his woods fill up with snow.
my little horse must think it queer
to stop without a farmhouse near
between the woods and frozen lake
the darkest evening of the year.
he gives his harness bells a shake
to ask if there is some mistake.
the only other sound's the sweep
of easy wind and downy flake.
the woods are lovely, dark, and deep,
but I have promises to keep,
and miles to go before I sleep,
and miles to go before I sleep.
- robert frost
i see sparkles.lots of them.each one of them calling out the one name i wish i cud freeze for prosperity. and hold it in my arms.like a baby holds a dear old ragged toy, when its havin nightmares. nobody else knows hobbes is alive. nobody else knows how much i love her. we met and the rest is history.we met and there's just no rest of it. perpetual motion. unhinged and continuous.sometimes stopping for breath.too much activity.always short of what's necessary. too much promise. always more than whats sufficient. waiting with our fingers uncrossed. a sunlit evening on the porch. with the water running in the shower. her back needs rest, and my chest needs her back. and forth. and back.and forth.
a jog in the park, this is not. a cry in the dark, just falls short. we are at work. painting our own future. li'l ants carrying even smaller pixels.tirelessly. absent-minded conversations with non-ant people. gluing together self-titled images of a carefully selected imagery. shaking hands and deep-set eyes. lack of sleep and an overworked jawline. spelling out beauty is not a 6 letter job. she is away. temporarily unavailable. and we wait. she is in the the united states. and we wait. for a united state. of being and nothing. of wonderous amazement at how it all happened. she thinks i am superman. i know she is wonderwoman. a satisfying struggle for satisfaction. end of desperately seeking desperation. nobody else knows what it means. nobody else knows how much i love her.
am stuck in india. my own making. should have freed myself. of make-believe hell. and faceless people. a deaf ear to the sirens call. was too busy fastening the noose. joinin dots to be starin back at obscurity. blowing away potential. trying to walk. on deserted railway tracks. a step down was death. to keep going was suicide. it was the end both ways. talking to myself. that i talked to myself. scared of attention. of stupid people. lying down on one-tree hills. waiting for a rustle. shapin up into my name. put up calls for help. and she answered. nobody else knows it was divine intervention. nobody else knows how much i love her. took to her like rain and the ground. kissed her kissin back. held on for life. to life. she was adamant at saving me. she handed out union. serene and seamless.love on my lips. life at my hand. we knew. and kept the secret to ourselves. that we are the best. yeah, we are.
the earth moved. and she had to go. a good life.and good sense. an year of starin into the night and wishing it was dawn soon. an year of adding an hour and a half, and turning the clock around. she is in minnesota. and i deep in thought. deep inside india. been eight months.eight months into managing the impossible. making love outta nothing at all? thought it was just another song too. we talk across continents.about distant universes. we live on a straight line island.and internet's man friday. everything figures. nothing's outta place. we hoist each other up. onto imaginary parapets. looking down as the world passes by. i hear more than what she says. she knows more than what i tell. we make us cry. we make us mad. we make us smile. and she begs me to stop. noone knows how we do it. noone knows how much i love her. we live a lifetime each day. only to live again, the next. we are a long way from sleeping together. but we are dreaming in sepia. already.