cepa andaluza

I know that she is writing me all of the time, in sky and cloud, in cat and owl. She is leaving every track allowed. I know that she is nearing close, headlines and poor jokes, the trembling nethers of the very earth below. Each shadow cast a kiss I just had missed, proof that I should begin the search for truth. Each of us unrequited, though in different means and ways.

There is a weight to this shadow. There is a heft to this sudden wind. The world telling me secrets that I am just quick enough to know I missed. Always asking, always watching. The romance of the hunt, blood warm and threat stifling the air. I watch the stars sifted through clouds, the wind unwavering and alert. I scan the sleeping hum of the silent street. The strange way nothing happening seems so livid and aware. Unseen eyes that promise, always almost there.

She always whispers, always leaves some trail of crumbs I crush unnoticed. Such a stark concern, such fine romance. She whispers in glee and sorrow, in anger and regret. I never listen well enough. So I hold this grudge and carry this torch. I plunge headlong into the danger of her wake, these nights dense with possibility. Following her trail, risking the last trap on the chance that I was wrong.