Cormac

What I write is for you my darlng boy. Since you left, I have decided to dedicate my words to you. I have tried to be at one with you, and I will yet try. Where you are today, is the place, or is one of the places that i ponder upon. I try to exclude the darkness, and I dream that a life once lived, is its own expression. And you dwell within me and will continue to do so. You were of me, and you are of me, and you will always have been of me. There is no separation, death will not keep us apart. As long as I dwell in this land of life, you will dwell right here with me, and in this way I will keep you alive until my breath is no more. And I just had this sense that you were different from how you were, from how you lived. I can yet feel it. And perhaps where you are today will understand you, and will be close to you. When I lost you, I lost a part of myself, but my memory tells me that we are together, and neither of us can be alone.

French Cafe Evening

There you were, clinging to the remains of an French cafe evening. T-shirt and jeans, and eyes searching the distance. And outside the traffic is abuzz with its action. The clock, stops to dream, its hands empty now. We are in a museum of stillness, but still that sense of ages, persists. We are in the church of time, and time has become mislaid. I can only look at you again within all of the stillness, lest I may feel the fear of this moment, so you are exalted by me now, you have gained some greater position, as yet unbeknownst to you. We travel outside, the city streets are cold and hungry in the nighttime, they become lost within the darkness, and there is fear in the skies, and their only comfort is their stars. And shape shifting is happening, right before our eyes, that is, if only our eyes could look from outside of us. We can see only each other and this particular night, and perhaps our motion. The question to be asked is; 'Now where do we go?'