Foresaw

I want to cut through but the path is blocked. Lint and dust has piled up and I can't see anything. The temple's been broken into. I'll walk forward in spite of it and come across in cobwebs.

I touched something those days.

I'll change face however many times and even leave the present for the past.

I touched something, was run over with power and peace. I put it on auto pilot in the best way you can.

I was floating and doing what the situation demanded and everything you needed came from me like a fountain.

I can't remember where we went for lunch. Questions like did we hike that day, how about that tourist spot with the cave arches on the beach or something like that. But I can see our pitch. I can see the car, of course, she was our quiet ally. I can see the entrance and the others with their places just near ours.

How could I do it? How did I do something so simple and yet so crucial?

Maybe I didn't really know what I was doing, but I dared.

I wanted to do something really, to help you feel what you should. It was like wanting to yawn. That was what was so pretty about it. You obliged me and sat down on a chair I think. That malicious sun shone and the space around us was evacuated. I placed a large bucket beneath you seeing I was actually using most of the stuff he had left in the car. I filled it with water which must have been from a hose but you never know and was it your shampoo, most likely. You were sitting and you let your hair down, it was an exhausted animal and I started to sense the privilege.

I let life carry me through, my hands rubbing your scalp and squeezing thick strands of hair and running my fingers through foam clouds, guiding a soft symphony at the pole. You followed my hands and gave in and I saw at this moment that I was doing right by you. And I felt you and how it was to be there doing this carefully. You saw me in a certain way which helped you understand what was brewing. You saw what I was and you may have seen beyond into what we could experience together, what the spaces of emptiness and quiet, long mornings might look like, standing by somebody. You could have been looking into colored glass right then. That little hour saw a voice coming through me which spoke my name to you and yours to mine, and I laid down seeds for all of the afternoons to come for all of the days when the sun was less bright or just as strong and for those moments when one knows but cannot do. On that day at our pitch with the bucket it was done, kind the moment was to you and to I.