The Fountain

We have a song, don't you know. Actually more music than a song. But then maybe there are lots of songs and tunes that are ours in some way. Because they connect us. At night waiting for sleep, it seeps into my dreams. At work, watching a movie, sitting in a restaurant -- a piece of something from the past makes it through the noise of the crowd -- and that connection is made. Then the rush of memories and flavors and smells and all the wonderful things about you. They arrive and present themselves and the aloneness waits and wins if I allow it. Sometime there is the ache. And sometimes there is the remembering of good things and wonderful things. What song? What music? Hum it for me.

I know you hate me. And I hate myself for knowing this and that I have caused this. You are too good and pure to live with hate. Although I know I find the thought of not having you a part of my life in some way; I can't think of it. I feel the hurt and anger. Every night as I wait for sleep, the burn and empty and memory -- all those memories. And I know that you hate me. Can you forgive? Can it be a hate that allows room for something else? A secret perhaps. A dream of something else. The moon. A piece of music. A dream. I know. It is not easy. I know.