She said I knew about the crush she had on me
and of course, she was right, but she knew I'd
never do anything about it, what with a girlfriend
up north and all, and she was right. Again.
But we carried on, as friends do, and she
never asked and I never offered and so it worked.
But it didn't stop me from wondering.

And I wonder.

She rose at dawn and we'd run together for 6 miles.
She'd make tea at 2 and tell me how she couldn't
believe in love, could never see it working, for her,
and she said it with such conviction, without self pity
that you couldn't help but believe her, no matter
how calm or distant she was; it seemed like
such a heavy hand to be dealt, though that
couldn't possibly be it because "you make your own
destiny" she'd say, but still you felt she was right.

And yet, I wonder.

She'd fiddle with the bottle as she explained
her love of Malick and I couldn't help but stare at
the strange etching on her wrist, it didn't seem to
fit her, and yet it was right, and she talked about being
cast out of paradise and that desire to find home and
feeling like John Wayne at the end of The Searchers,
unable to cross that threshold, cursed to wander forever
between the winds, in search of...

And still I wonder.

She has no idea, and yet she must, of how incredibly beautiful
and sharp she is, and yet you marvel at how effortlessly
she concludes her fate, one filled with books and art and
sky and clouds...lightning....just her and the sun, ever the
loner, even when by my side, and I can't help but stare at
her lips as she reads me her favorite piece, and watch as her
eyes spark with Jack's words and I imagine myself reaching
out to touch her hair and whisper to her, I'm right here

but I'm not there.

Still, she wonders.


words: Sheila Lynne, Georgia (Scarlets Walk)
image: Christine Stoddard, Virginia (about the dragon)

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