In Good Company.
Yes. It's True. The space between here and forever could be filled with your words. Ideas tumbling in a tide like water. An ocean of your prose, so thick that it crests in metaphor as it swells. Casting scattered sentences on the shores. The seashells reciting their favorite verses when held to your ear. And the sky, leaking muddled line after muddled line that collects into puddles that make no sense. The first one my foot crashes into, splashing ink through my soul and staining my sock read, "Long Breath. Drive Brother mine."
The second was splashed across the windshield following that very same long breath as I drive. Visible only for a moment before the windshield wiper erased it forever, read,
"Hoping Denver Flowers for a Kiss."
And then the dew on those flowers bloomed and revealed another and the water beading up on the side of my bottle, another. Until finally I realized that, yes. Absolutely. A poem should always be read with your left hand pressed flat to your stomach and your right hand stirring little circles eloquently in the air before you. And some sentences should be ended with a small pause.... and a false start on the other side of the few moments you choose to give the audience back their breath. And that is when I scrawled down this poem for you. That is when I mixed up your words that were left on the bar in front of me. That's when I wrote with my finger in the ring of water left like a crescent moon on oak. I wrote this and left it for a bar rag to eventually claim. Knowing that I did so to try and be poetic. Something about each moment being fleeting. But, had you been there? Had you been there, I would have hoped you'd understood that I was thanking you. Thanking you for your words, and your gift, and your friendship. Thanking you for accepting me and inspiring me and including me in your beautiful life. And I would have hoped that you'd laugh as I climbed upon that bar and yelled,
" I REALLY FUCKING LOVE THAT WOMAN!"
