WALK SLOWLY DOWN THE AISLE

we sit and can almost see the fragrance rising as the roses stretch away from us in long row upon rows of soft beauty. as we discuss such meaningless things as bears or raccoons or coca-cola or stairs, it feels as though someone could write something meaningful or profound or prosaic or something.

the sky opens up around me and stars pour down on to my skin like the night wil never end. couples and groups fill the garden around me with pseudo-romance and coffee and drug-soaked youth, that some days i wish i had to remember and other days i am glad i never will.

oh, for the nights we have been together like this, warm and cool, iced and hot, the nights of light, and coffee, coffee, and full of talking. nights like this you lose in talking and suddenly you wake up and wonder what you did all night and never can quite remember but you know you'll never forget how it felt. nights like tonight that are full of memories. if you could look objectively out of time at this place i would be everywhere, because this here, this now, this context and i are inextricably linked.

you write for me with your mouth scathing critiques of what you don't agree with or don't like, and i have no response because i know i will never win with you. at points you are as soft as rose petals, but if you push on life or petals, they squish, and if you leave them alone they dry out and harden. and i wonder to myself, does anyone else ever think like this? (let's disregard the thorns.) and that would be the start of a poem if i had the will or the wit or the time or the talent, all of which i have lost in the stream of summers proceeding slowly down my neighborhood street.