This Fog

She is so beautiful, but I cannot see her in this fog.
I remember her, I’ve known her, and I’ve known her beauty.
But something happened
and we were separated from each other,
and now she too lives in the fog.

We cannot see
each other.

The fog seems to lift in the middle of the morning,
but look closely and you’ll see
that it never lifts. It is always here.
I fear I will be in it always
and never see her as she is.

If only loneliness could move mountains.
But who wants to move mountains?

Some nights I consider everything,
and it all looks futile.
Other nights I consider nothing,
and it all looks all right.

If only she sat beside me, I could find
some other reason to be dissatisfied.

Some mornings I wake up before even the monks,
and God is all.
Other mornings I do not wake up at all,
and God is not.

One red light blinking.
Two blue eyes yearning.
Ten pale and frantic fingers.

Each one of us is so beautiful, but so few of us can see it in this fog.
I remember a place where sight is granted,
but I cannot remember
how to get back there, I cannot remember
who I saw there, who saw me bare and naked, and did not laugh.

But I remember laughter too, full and hearty,
I remember you, you were there, laughing with me.
I cannot remember why we left,
why we came to this place
where we drift without sight in this fog.

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