Question marks cut in half, fingers
less likely placing periods, as we fumble with
philosophy, pinpointing the same star
from different points on earth.
Maybe small surprises will sneak up
on grocery lists, a fragment from your diary
stuck on repeat, like the chorus that seems
to find its course during Saturday chores,
as the hours sail by on watches for two.
But on a day, you will sail too.
You will fan out your question marks
from Europe to East-Asia,
and periods will churn even harsher
inside of me, like the liquor I couldn't bear,
but still drank, because it's the only way
to make my dreams independent from the night.
If we happen, we will be the trailer
of Dear John, or other unfortunate love stories,
without the flamboyance of an open ending.
If we happen, we will happen in whirlwinds,
and when you finally settle your course
I'd already be tangled from waiting.
