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Lately I've been thinking of space, darkness, and the lack of something. How you could travel an eon and be nothing more than a peon until you come close to someone else's gravitational pull and being around them makes you full. Every half lifetime light shines, goes dark and you wonder if illumination will return again. You try to surmise, her dimensions, wondering how you'll fit in. Specks on mountain peaks or the foam that forms after ocean waves crash, could I be the substance of her beginning, more than a misplaced rib? Wonder if she'll be the seconds that accumulate in my golden days. I try to figure out how to define here and now from somewhere out there. I manipulate phrases until the alliteration rolls off the tongue, and she says, "Damn your words touch places that make Stevie's harmonica hum." I find flow in stillness, and remain still in rushes. Forty yards later hall of fame defenses can't touch this. At times I'm ten feet tall, other times, nothing at all. If I wrote my own biography it would bear this theme... Stars and sand and everything. Stars, sand and every part of man. She's the stars and sand encompassing what my feet feel and the greatest part of mental appeal. Imagine how heaven might feel if it were grown at home. Dissecting and intersecting, some connections are covalent. My truest meaning siphoned up like oil in Arabian fields. Enveloping every drop of me, I write letters addressed to places only the soul goes. Postman came to deliver, sent back from Saturn, return to sender. Stars, sand and Arabian land, she's everything I am. Undelivered letters that contain messages of specks and foam, almost home. The evolution of who I am is eclipsed by who she is to me. Fire flickers. A moth's collision course. Impact kicking up moon dust. Love, lust and us.


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