His Soul Swooned Softly

She sits before me, (or next) and inquires frequently about my offering of tissues and if this is ok and/or normal and I am more and more unsure of how to react. We are friends, I think. I think that this is how that goes. But I'm not sure; not for certain. It is a lot of work, and work which I'm not accustomed to. I think it's too much in one direction and my nature wants me to revolt. When we talk there is something physically separating us always and it strikes me as a harbinger of safety (fear is behind that?) I say nothing and she talks.

We make plans and cancel them (I cancel them) and we make plans and I show up and it's fine. It's just fine. This is what it is, this. You go to a restaurant and you talk about things and you connect and there it is. Or you don't and still it's there, the recounting of events and people and all of the details and joking and it's wonderful and I love to be sought out and appreciated and part of something. And yet, there is this thing.

And it deliberated.

And it commiserated.

And yet,

it was missing a piece.

It's so different. The whole (my whole) world upset with words and longing and the people we want to be and wish we could be when there is a whole entire beautiful circus entailing that which we are.

"Better pass boldly into that other world," he sputtered, "in the full glory of some passion, than fade and wither dismally with age."

Indeed.