We sit by the door, waiting to hear some brassy footsteps stomp down to our place

We sit and wait and count fears for minutes

But silence sweeps down the halls and sneaks under the door to embrace us

There are no footsteps…

We wait

And in the meantime we decide to laugh with abandon, at anything that moves

Or speaks

We laugh with memes, and themes, and lives

Just live, and live, and absent of eternity

And there are no scribes to write out our timelines in breathings and vivid etchings

Everything is snapchat without a deniable database

Hacked twitter with deletable handles

Poof,  no proof. We lose joy when we should not have borrowed it in the first place

Everything sings a song of now, now.

I sat with her, blazing through books.

I made paper planes from the pages. Without tearing a page off any book

Those paper planes carried out signals of unsettling happiness.

They spread news of a joy so strangely sweet, it called up bitterness as a heady foretaste

I loved her. I loved her. I did love her.

That is not me trying to convince, it is declaring  – as John the Baptist going about repeating.

I reached for her like tulip stems leaning out to receive sunrays

But she fell away, like a sandcastle kicked by a petulant kid

I clutch nothing instead. I sink inside. A singularity woke in me and sucked in the roots of joy

And there are no scribes inside of me to record those events.

Someday we may invent invisible scribblers who can tell us in gladful moments

Of the living death that will make life dreamlike

And we’ll make them whisper to us. How long this joy will last, how deep the pain will get. How noisy loneliness’ quiet is.

They will tell us everything –

And we will choose whether to have the dance for a fleeting moment, and then bitter throbbing for unending moments. We will choose.

Then, that One day, we may re-write the story.

But there are no scribes. Just yet….