[ All the loneliest of folks
gather at coffee-shop counters (not booths),
strangers detained by the rain
(clanking cups), waiting
for a jailhouse conversion.
So which leap of faith becomes
our cross to bear? All told, there is a dalliance
in the heart — (an inside day of soup and board games).]
Lost to the finale of wind,
home-bound sailor and the gloved farewell
that never gets said in time.
I’ll never know, and neither will you, of the life you don’t choose. We’ll only know that whatever that sister life was, it was important and beautiful and not ours. It was the ghost ship that didn’t carry us. There’s nothing to do but salute it from the shore.
“The world is an incomplete sketch that never came off,” so said another writer, once. In this quotidian world, things only happen once. Having nothing to compare these things to, we never know what to do. If things only happen once — each instant in our life only happening once — then we will never know what is right or wrong to do. Break up with her or don’t break up with her? Quit your job or don’t? Cross that street or not? The world itself is an unfinished sketch; a plan for a painting that was never made. The world itself is unfinished, incomplete. The world itself is almosting it. Almost life, almost love, almost kiss, almost cigarette, almost fear, almost death, almost hope, almost difference, almost apartment, almost cat, almost dog, almost rain, almost night, almost life again.