An Evening's Goodbye

Every night I fall asleep beside grief,
anxiety watching nearby,
making friends with ghosts,
always wondering why.

Every morning I wake to delight,
filled with the promise of empty,
blue skies and sparkling eyes.

Mother was blooming,
Father was straightening.
Mother was bending,
Father was looking.
Mother is learning,
Father is listening.
Mother starts to contemplate,
Father wills a way for them to try.

I'm there and then I'm not.
She wakes me with her crazy games,
her teaseful antics are all the reasons why.

I'm there and then I'm not.
There's a loophole here, I'm wonder why.
Dinner's ready, there is time.
She's calculating, he's singing.
He's slurping, she's tending.
She's tending, and she's also tending.
I speak to my computer.
Sometimes it throws back a reply.

I'm there and then I'm not.
She's here and then she's not.

Love, loved, loving.

I don't know how.
She doesn't know how.
But at least she tries.
It took me so long to learn the dance,
that hopeful dance when angels oversleep,
that awakes the Buddha from his seat,
and manifest ash in Sai Baba's palm.
Meanwhile Mohammed stands by.

I don't know how.
I'm here and then I'm not.
I'm there and then I'm not.

The moon still speaks a language I do not see.

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