we are alike in that we both
we never understood each other. we are like
salmons seeking salvage in the river cascade,
frogs frolicking in the mist, thirsty
lotuses on a dry pond, broken
lines in languid poems.
and like them we linger,
and shall ever on, perhaps
until the seasons need not turn any more, until
cicadas need not harmonies for their
evening songs any more, until
the darkest moon should look to rotten leaves and say that they
must still bloom — that they can still
be wishless, if stars were out of reach,
be beautiful, even then.
as it stands, we are alike
In that we grew so much together that
it drove us apart —
as longing for the sky is what
the flightless bird would sing,
the air creates the winds,
and winds create their wings.
— A. P.