On the dance floor, we liked to call ourselves the blonde-brunette quadrangle, a seamster’s patchwork of forgiveness, 'til the semester tide took us all.
How can there be so many intelligent, creative people out there, imaginations that run parallel, a Jacob’s ladder of thoughts intertwined, who don’t want to be together? Who don’t have a longing within them to seek out the rest, form covenants of friendship and unite across a landscape of mental destitution?
My friends-at-hearth, my iron council, my immoral high standard – that they’re part of the reckoning they’ll little know. Watching from above, unconditionally and unknowingly
helping me set my curse upon little hazel-eyed hearts.
As for me,
I’ll keep my mouth shut, I’ll keep it all to myself, I won't let it out, I promise.
I’ll try, I promise. Perhaps.
I tried.
But where there is safety from the wrath of judgment and super-humanity, love is free.
After All These Years, and so many more to come, we’ll be “together”.
Only in being alone may you find time to observe loneliness from afar.
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