Tomorrow is another day. Closer, I hope, to peaks jutting out from downtown.
And hope--mostly. Dreams there. Deferred, as some may say. But not really. Just on pause, perhaps. Just waiting until more lessons seep through this slightly pale, but muscular, in the right light, skin.
Wonder, I do, too, whether he will truly come.
Risk, he never was one to take, or venture far. Decisions, really, split us. He called me hasty. Often.
But I follow where I feel led, while he stays, firmly entrenched, like the byssal threads of mussels that cling to sea-washed rocks. Powerful, foamy waves come, beating repeatedly against the surface, but he remains.
I wonder if this could be a true love story? Could he chase what he probably needs--but do I?