poem

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It’s this window that’s me.
It’s the sky with the star and the peaks of I-don’t-know-what on the roofs that jab into the sky, but ever so carelessly and innocently.
It’s this point that I see, where the deep black blue of the heavens meets the flat black outline of a house, a street, a car.
It’s that second I think of (I.),
of the timelessness and the evertime with him,
of the moon in the desert in the hut.
It’s when I think of that that I think:

What am I doing here?

It’s beautiful. It’s delicious.  But what is it without you?
But I don’t know you…
So what if there is no you?

I can’t find my meeting point:
Where my mind, my brain, my innermost thoughts meets the pavement, my life, and you.
What I mean is, I can’t let you be the pavement, you aren’t, you can’t be.
Because I want you at this window, with me, looking out, looking in.
But I’ll take you (either) way,

I promise.

{Kuntsrule stories are written by our readers. Share your own at Kuntsrule Submission.}

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