Where do the souls go
I wonder to myself
And to her
Maybe there are no souls
She says to me
Where do they come from
I wonder to us
Maybe nowhere
She answers me
And I wonder where she came from
This soul that is her
And I wonder where I will go
This soul that is me
And no answer comes
Because she has gone
And I wonder where
She goes
When she goes
The ancients, we have be told by the recents, believed you could know a lot about a person by feeling the bumps on the head or by tracing the lines of the hand or by studying their eyes. I have seen and touched her in as many ways as I can imagine and so many things are a mystery to me. I could, I feel certain, create a perfect sculpture of her. Still, it would not be her. Not even close. What is missing? Everything that I cannot see or feel.
When
After the end
We share what some consider
A more perfect communion
Among the spheres of the cosmos
I will miss
The curve of the small your back
And that place at the top of your thigh
And so many places and shapes
That the spheres never dreamt
Hello, friends. How are you today?
Later. Love.
