My Dear,

Each of us waits for action from the other. Who will make the first move? Who will be moved? Our feet form in synchrony a pattern across the distance and we begin a dance to span its radius, our fluidity of motion building possibility with the beat. But the past lies dead between us and we cannot cross a terrain so riven; dare not dance amongst the reposed in bitter reverie. We shift in the waiting silence and our feet strike out a new path – we circumvent. Our limbs unstitch the riddle of remoteness that time wove from our footsteps, trod on different paths across the separated ground. And within each forward movement you are realized and forgotten within me: I find in my mind what never should have left it, before it is forgotten again. It draws me toward you. And while I imagine with each new step that we come closer to each other, I fear that fate will have me follow you forever. Always approaching, never reaching – the riddle of the road restitching itself behind me.

 

Yours,