To Here and There

I. I think on my shoes propped on a wooden writing desk, the leather synthetics, the soles, the wear, and the feet they protect - feet which take me here to there, and, again, to here and there. She walks in and says "hello", with a kiss and the usual small talk, as if to say "I love you" in the little things (the home we've made, the life we've built, the not-so-little-after-all things, you know). II. I watch her lines as they move in poetic form, her slope, her glow, and the soul of a woman who takes me here to there, and, again, to here and there. She's the fogged breath on my telescope which blurs the view of comets in outer space. That is to say, she completes me. If I think on here ways, the red-washed waves of her cheek, and her blood orange hair that licks the salty sea, I find it's too much. She, lensed by angels and brisk as ghosts, is all I know. We each breathe fogged breath to blur the scope, and like weathered boots in the snow, from here to there, and, again, to here and there she will be, and, again, to here and there - that's where I will go.