Six months after the last forced conversation,
and it's still in the way you say goodnight
and never goodbye—
As if this farewell is not final.
As though tomorrow morning holds all the promise
of a crisp white canvas
awaiting the pungent, thick brushstrokes of Uncertainty.
But just as I feel I have not quite made amends,
we make it a point to converse again—
You say, I do not sleep at nights
and I have met the girl who brings about the sunrise.
I tell you, Life is no longer simple
when I'm speaking out for America
and I am choked by promises of air, of city and sand.
Two years after the defiance of gravity
I will speak of my studies and perhaps
tangled in my incisive nervous humor you will
hear me saying
Your voice is still renewing,
like mass on Sunday morning.