There's sunny rain and here am I

What we want is to be immersed in newness. Holes boring through hearts, cornfield blue skies gaping through.

Who are you, though? I love you much and I love you often. You told me all about a plastic bottle with my name in it, but not what else you wrote. What you wanted proclaimed to rocks but not to me. Was that love? You share and you keep. What share, what keep?

There are worlds created that are more full than the one cre-ote. I’ve told you this often I think but maybe it was unclear: these are where I remain, always. Your grip, lost. Grip?

I write now because I miss noodle-nimbling things. My Hudson-upon-Thames, brown river and oak-y banks. Come back. Come back.

I sigh often, often while walking up metro stairs, a sigh that disrupts the invisible borders we’ve built between. It blasphemes, this sigh that lifts.

Remember that time? It was my favorite. There was a flood, my house was different, very, I had to save someone, fields of snowy trees. Maybe also a kiss in a bush? Most definitely there was a haunted home. In fact, it all was. I never wanted to wake.

Everything, all the time, as someone once sang to me. I have forgotten my words as I so often do. I begin things because I want to capture sun beams before they fade. Where finish? Where fade.

You can’t finish the things you begin, that’s for true.