I don't want to be happy with you.
I don't want to be sad either.
I want to be with you,
not fighting, not exacting,
not adrenal, not in language
or spoken out loud.
I want the daydream
to have punctuation
like the face of a clock
but with the sweep hand
of wonderment.
I want the grains of sand
to sneak out
of the hourglass, unnoticed
without glory to their absence,
no concern
as if time had a curfew accent.
I want private reflections
to quickly do their business
and return to now,
not neither embarrassed nor amused
but dismissed
for a radiant presence
that fulfills itself.
I want the motors of ourselves
running, but as symphony.
We are these fire sticks
rubbing as us together
without motion as we lay.
We are both drowning
without resistance,
yet producing buoyancy
for us to breathe a balance
as ourselves alive.
There are no answers
for us to come upon
and then pray
with a sense of gratitude.
What we occasion
as our common mind
is simply served
as frames of celebration.
What seeks to be our rooted-ness
serves us as self-love shared
without outward broadcasts
or hidden behind accusations
feigning a mockery of blame.
We re-ignite as simply as
where and how the wind
becomes its own glory
and the night re-conceives of us
within and from the day.
Always we are
each other's moments
unraveling as passage per se.
Thoughtfulness becomes
as courteous turns,
curious as the constant roundness
of the illogical wheel of our lives,
rounding towards intentions
sharing in our behavioral forms.
There is our business
in the fumes and furies
all within our weave of silence.
All there is within us swims
through much of which
does not appear
to be an exchange
but our common mediums
are for love's action of loving.
And once again, yet ongoing,
we are saved
from the movie of real . . .
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