Fiber Optics

You have to wonder if I'm in love with you, and I'm already making the plans I'll follow though to surprise myself and meet. I'm buying purple flowers and hoping their children will line our driveway. I'm thinking of the distances plotting our separation and of the radical Pollack skies we'll both review and of how those stars will better any connection the digits would ever dare to dream to try. I'm considering the things I can send great ways and mean a lot, a coloring book, a song, the scraps of life we weave into us and make mean so much more than any passersby'd ever stop to notice or ever could see even if they'd scopes. There are threads of joy and of love and of wholeness which are so appropriately imbued with the connectedness of string, and those lines run back and forth, weave in and out, resonance and cement and glances which turn from one-word exclamations to eternity and the infinitely many kisses of the seemingly infinite number of stars and the blossoms to one day pass through gardens flanking the home we'll make whether we find ourselves seaside or forestbound or in the concrete and steel of cities grander than the ones we know today or can conceive for tomorrow. You are my stars, you are my flowers, you are my everything organic and everything geometric and everything tangible and everything imaginable and everything else. That I'm in love with you, is it really any wonder at all?

PT