It wasn't a desert where i could soak up the sun, nor bay the moon. It was one of mirages, all deceptive and volatile. All but one; one that i sat down with and talked to, and in later hours, wrote about.
To the one who appears out of nowhere,
and disappears by what feels like light years,
so that her return will always bring back a stolen smile.
To the one with a fascination for music, and he who plays it.
and food. and wine. and cheese.
and the lovely times of ease, without papers to write,
nor diaries to lose.
To the irony of fate that brings us here from a familiar place,
to meet, only a fortnight out of synch.
To the one whose lack of grace is comfort,
and monkey business is indulgence,
and whose parallel is hard to find.
I am happy you exist.
(written Febuary 2008)
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