5 for 5

1.

yes. today. i thought it would be much calmer. i thought maybe overcast, or partly cloudy. what's the difference. i thought, maybe 50 or 60 degrees, with some brief but strong winds, enough to blow someone's hat over, or make your grandson tear, by accident. he does not know what this all really means. he just came, because his mother and father dressed him up, and took him along with them to you. and you. well, you would probably like this scene. straight out of that movie that you loved, because it made you cry, and you loved movies that made you cry. but i remember that in more recent years, you cried at mostly all the movies you saw. maybe you just wanted to cry. needed a good cry because you couldn't speak. now you really can't speak. but i'll come and speak to you often. every week. i promise. 

2.

i watched him walk the dog down the hallway while i stood by the water fountain. i watched as he threw it down, and dragged it around, and when it toppled over and flopped on its side, i watched as he stepped backwards to make it move with him. then she ran over, and pushed on the block of tarnished metal, urging it to dispense for her what she needed, or wanted. i guess if we want anything so much that it bothers us to live without it, then we need it. what do i need. what do i need? it sprang to her in a clear, sparkling curve, but not so sparkly because the light did not hit it at the right angle. i wish it did. i would have liked to watch liquid crystals drop into her mouth. then she sighed, and left. what do i need? i hear footsteps running around, around the corner that my eyes could not see. i hear their sharp but sweet voices. youth. what do i need?

3.

does the sun shine

on your chalky line?

or does it hide behind

the clouds, vast and wide,

waiting, for you to find?

i do not think

of the lines that link

your mind to your mouth,

these thoughts do not go

from high north to low south.

go and search,

it is waiting.

kindly perched

on a star, waning.

in a good church,

i am hiding.

4.

maybe in that coffee bar,

we would sit, drink

and think

that this is maybe

how i'd love to spend

my remaining

sunday nights.

you with your pen

(it could explode,

and you would 

possibly cry),

and i with pencil

(breakable,

but replaceable),

and our words

on two pages

that face each other,

opposite in direction,

upside down

and we'd frown,

trying to peek

at the unformed 

thoughts

and plots.

these will be words

that we may never say,

but easily write,

because the paper is

so plain,

waiting.

5. 

i sit, and read.

but next to you,

it is more than

"i sit, and read."

it is

"i sit, and read,

but i am reading

not words

but the movements

of your pen.

of your eyes,

i imagine,

running to this corner

and that corner

and back to the paper.

this book can wait.

i read instead

your handwriting

and i try to tip toe

into your thoughts.

i formulate my own 

theories on forces

of attraction,

on infinity

and beyond,

on the 9th dimension

where your thoughts

are bouncing

around me,

through my hair,

across my lips,

brushing past my hands,

neck, and all that matters is"

sixteen minutes have passed,

and your eyes are still

on your paper.