This morning, a thin haze has turned the mountain's blue-green to a gauzy netherworld. The peaks appear to loom larger.
It might be the dream of release, the unfamiliar we've been scrambling for, a hint that this is the way, that we're not still here, dream or not.
My head contains its noises, sounds are forming, looking for release. I know what I want to say, but can't form the words.
A fierce haunting was yours not so long ago, a family specter, winsome and strong at once, a shade with bosun's legs; you smile, it's gone.
A burden of light has ridden thousands of lingering days within you. Now you've given reason for it to proliferate; the sign is in your eyes.
With well-seasoned calm, under stars, we'll embrace, fly each others' routes, then meet on the other side of what we used to call longing.
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