Solitude is a river where we lie
like stones in its bed, seeing
only the blur of branches- lush,
browned, bare, budding.
The water is always cold,
always swift, never low
enough that we might speak.
We are mired in our beloved
seclusion, drowned in liberty.
I see you as a mirror, imagine
the curve of your back
is mine. The current works
to smooth us into twins,
polish us to dark obscurity.
We call this devotion and wonder
why we are not blessed.
Everyone knows that
rocks do not move
of their own accord,
so we wait for some mighty hand
to plunge beneath the river’s skin
and hurl us into destiny.
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