I fall in and out of your hold; your soft whispers hush my fears as I tremble within. You touch and sway in the hammock under a peach-faded sky. My voice is muted, veiled like a lover’s cry, echoing Juliet’s pain that lingers in the courtyard. Behind the vines, casting a shadowy glow, her silhouette—dove-like from nose tip to brow—dives into the bottomless pond. Peer into her eyes are the ocean where riptides and gulls flutter. Her sea’s currents pull you in, and you’ll dance like two young girls with daisy chains atop their heads, spinning in circles until they all fall down.
We get ourselves into pretzel-like binds, tangled by the goals, promises, and dependencies on one another. Kicking out the crutches, we step back, holding breaths. Will they fall and cry out? It’s the crescendo—the moment the actor tells his daughter he’s staying behind, that he’ll save humanity, but she loses the person dearest to her.
She is your first four-leaf clover, its charm resting in your palm, glowing with its bountiful secret meant just for you. And then, she’s gone. Like the last sliver of the sun at the horizon, the final lap from the dog’s dish—a hollow goodbye. An existence erased. But you’ll know it’s okay. You’ll know by the memory, by the time when life felt like a never-ending encyclopedia. And for that and for a million infinites, we will mourn.
Going On 40 