Poem Of The Day #53
All day long-- misty drizzle, wet raindrops, freezing pellets, snow flakes-- weather in all forms have a last party of the winter. March is a difficult month, counting date--only the 9th. Spring is in the mind, but nowhere to find. Search the dump of my old drafts, and find something about you. How can I forget the passion in your eyes, from thirty feet away at the most inopportune time? Search the corner of my old thoughts, and there you are in the dream of my alternative life. You say things exactly like what I want you to say; you do things exactly like what I want you to do. It's so unreal. Beautifully unreal. Of course if we had really made it, we would be temperamental, probably fighting all the time. Love and hate, desire and resent, know too much for our own good, care too much until it aches. I know I can just pick up the phone, and call the number on your webpage, where your picture is not one day older than ten years ago. But I will never do that.