a glimmering, shabby past

“I’ll whistle when I get my motorcycle. Do you know how to whistle? So, just take your lips from the sweet of the thistle and blow.” She liked that. Her joy, as it is derived from me especially, is my junk, my hyberbolic fix, perhaps. She wrote back, “Sing for me baby.” So I got my little fix, for the day at least, my few and far between fix, like starlight, that upon experiencing it’s light oceans of time have elapsed. True sacrifice. I take my breaths, truly, between those fixes and that is my sacrifice to how deeply enraptured I was, with the World when I looked into her eyes, when I kissed deeply her breath and lips, when we sank in deep congress. I’m still building that custom motorcycle, one dream, one dollar, one bolt, every moment at it’s own time…Maybe that’s the lesson in all of this. Maybe I’m a sucker for a passionate pocket of the past and never recovered from impressions made. Whatever. She still makes my heart beat fast…and like that on and on of my lasting pump, I, the host must move and negotiate and engage the obstruction, the monstrous unknown, the dark beyond in those eyes… Whatever curb or lovely bump, whatever the tender risk produces, I’m down…