I wake up from a foggy dream,
An image still afloat in the mindless waters of my mind,
Distorted by ripples of distance and time –
A stranger looking through the blinds of a moving window,
Painting me a beautiful chiaroscuro laden with intricate metaphors –
I cling to it like a blind man to a dream of colors and light,
Like a cripple to a memory of a sprint.
She’s here today, and she stays,
Not evaporating like a fickle fantasy.
Was it a dream then, an idea, like always?
Or did He finally conjure her with his wand last night?
I’ve always known her –
Like a picture within a picture, a dream within another.
We’ve talked before, through the stars, the wind, nature’s hushed whispers,
The songs of birds who journey across the seas.
She made me bleed often: Prose and poetry;
I was the paint on her fingers, the song on her lips,
A meaning lodged in her throat,
That no words could carry forth.
But she is tangible now, if anything really is.
I met her in the wilderness we share, far away from the fields of logic.
And although we may prefer the elements still,
We talked on the wires yesterday, painting pictures,
Just like a lifetime ago, I’d like to believe.
Distance warped over the fabric of time,
She’s so far away and yet so close.
Now a phantasm, a pool of cool water on a hot road,
I chase her down, only to find her riding the grey clouds on the horizon.
Now she’s in the stillness of a fleeting moment,
Then in the flawed timer of a traffic signal –
Stuck, just like my train of thoughts.
Standing on the bridge, laughing with me at the flocks march to and fro;
Amid the transience, she’s my imminent permanence.
I find her in the monologue inside my head, now a conversation,
In the leaves a strong spring wind dislodges, places in my way.
I wonder if this gust has enough to reach the mountains,
The peaks she climbs while I swim in the sea of her mind.
“Will you caress her hair for me? Indulge us in cafune?” I ask of the mighty wind.
It roars wild and true, like a feisty dragon, tamed by a promise.
I send her a message, lay it on the feathered back of the beast –
No words, just a mumble of incoherent thoughts, muddled with the din of my day.
I know she’ll know, she always does.
Time is stubborn, so she lingers on, in delicious metaphors.
In the deep brown eyes of a grey toy-seller,
In the multitude of colors in my sky,
In the subtle, morphing flavours of my coffee,
In the whiff of old text on a new book,
In the covert kisses of a betrothed couple,
In the unexpected epiphany of an ordinary moment,
In this sudden influx of words…
“Cuatro: Four,” she says, in a Spanish lesson.
I roll it over, and over again in my head,
Until it seeps into my soul, becomes an all-consuming void.
Like a black hole of sentiment.
I wonder when four days seemed longer,
Then I remember a promise, of a gift of words on her return.
So I let myself drown in her absence.
Devoid of rhyme, I let them loose- silly inadequate words.
Pearls for her treasure chest, I tell my mind,
The choicest ones from my ocean of blue.
For a stranger. My beautiful stranger.