Time makes us leave each other. A window looking out and for a moment action happens. The days have more then a number and we get close to a deeper dream. It brushes my fingers as I reach and just there for a fleeting moment I can feel it. Then it flits away gracefully spins as time passes again. The days regain their numbers, the hours tick me further away from the touch of it. I try to remember, to relive it. It evades me and it is heartbreak. I cannot find it again, not so real as it was. I am older now and still my courage fails me. I wear, weathered soul that faces the slow drip of the ordinary day. How is it that all this time can pass and with one moment I am back on a path I thought I had already traveled the length of? These dreams are all tied-up together, your eye on my eye. How glorious and how miserable. I swore off of longing, made to stay away and try to forget. In one span of a second, a glimpse and it rushes back as if it has never left. How was the view? Could you see the battle raging? Then you are the only one aware of it. I paint the endless gaps away, marking them with line and color. It gives them a shape, a hope. The subject is not so relevant as the passage of paint. The marks a ticking notation of a life silently forced to watch what it most wants to touch again. Time makes us come back together in an endless loop. We circle in widening arcs in and out ever upwards chasing paths. Stay close, do not fade again.

Hope is a thing with feathers
That perches in the soul
And sings a tune without words
And never stops at all.

And sweetest, in the gale, is heard
And sore must be the storm
That could abash the little bird
That keeps so many warm.

I've heard it in the chilliest land
And on the strangest sea
Yet, never, in extremity
It ask a crumb of me.

Emily Dickinson 

Still?

oh yes, even now, still