He is alive and well. Warm. He breathes in, he breathes out. He is inside his mind, mulling over manchoices underneath the loud chant of a tractor, a mower, a tiller. He must have 9 hours a day inside his mind. Yet he doesn’t have much to say. He doesn’t let on with me–just asks me out again and again, and again and again. I’m barking up his tree, I’m tugging at my heart, I’m wanting him to choose me, I’ve already chosen him. He is alive and well. I did not know.
I thought he might not exist at all. And then I saw him, standing, breathing, talking. I thought I might have missed him. With my birth, his death. I thought, I am too different for love. I am not chosen. I am pick-eee, but I met him, breathing and talking. Now, now I need him to pick me, to keep me.
If not well it’s back to the drawing board, numb hands, no ink in my pen, well run dry, stiff, deadlove girl. He moves me. Makes me come alive. Takes my breath away. This is. This is it.
