Twin Flame

There is a fissure, a disconnect,

a field of gaps and lacunae,

that separates my consciousness from the concrete.

An idea is willed into existence,

an ephemeral will-o'-the-wisp

that must traverse this pessimal, blasted land.

Gaping maws of doubt and distrust seek to swallow,

to absorb, this traveler whole. 

I am the landscape.

I am the only observer. 

I have been watching an endless stream of pilgrims,

these creatures of utmost incipiency. 

I have watched them slip unerringly into the void.

The mind has no other avenue, no backroads to employ,

to ensure the cooperation of these two hands, these reticent lips.

My desire may never survive the distance,

the transformation of aching whimsy

to spoken word.

I may never tell you how severely you are missed.