I
live inside your not communicating to me.
I
know that place in you.
It
has life, avid, lucid but concealed.
It
may never surface in this world as real.
But
it lives consciously in our awareness.
It
has impulses and suppressed drives.
It
knows me intimately but not consummately.
It
has fresh air we secretly breath
and
know where we are with each other.
We
have moments outside of time.
They
are refreshed and deliberate.
They
awaken to spirit upheld yet withheld.
No
one may ever know this truth between us.
It
has never made it to words straightforwardly.
So
much of life’s intentions and obligations
would
have to be set aside
just
to have that conversation face to face.
There
is no act that would satisfy
the
shared thirst that is activated.
Maybe
a week together
without
clothes, speech or exterior senses
would
make the statement more clearly ongoing,
would
enunciate the calling to its source,
would
reclaim that part of me that dwells in you
that
I so dearly miss in myself and likewise.
The
interface is sacred and profoundly infrequent.
The
call outs from soul go on at times unanswered
but
not without reprieve.
There
is an enormity to our closeness.
Maybe
that is filled with undeniable trust
beyond
the physical or the time-binds,
or
the overwhelm of preoccupations
that
otherwise fill our lives
away
from this ovum of shared Siamese of spirit.
All
of my singular frustration gives way
to
this constancy of access to shared spirit.
We
have a frequency of residence,
etheric
but ever present and ongoing . . .
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