chapter two

with Serge playing softly from your bedroom, you'll wander the hall knowing just where to find me. slipping beneath a curtain of leaves and stepping gingerly around my charcoal and pens and stacks of books, you'll slide into the chair and flip quickly upside-down, your ever-darkening locks skimming the floor. as the blood rushes to your head, we'll wait for the other to speak first, both content to sit silently and stay in conversation with the dreamings of our imaginations. and then you'll ask me how we came to rest here in this space and city and moment in time. you'll turn and slink off the chair pushing the air around you and forcing the smoke of the incense into a halo about your ringlets. and I think you'll lie on the floor, feet where your back just rested, staring out the window hoping something magical floats by, awaiting my response and wiping sleep from the corners of your eyes. putting my work to the side, I'll follow your eyes until we are both taking in the fringes of the neighbor's curtains dancing in the window across the way. clearing my throat, I'll tell you that there was a moment, a thousand moments, some infinitesimal and some glaringly, achingly immense. in each, I looked at you and made a choice. every so often, I was aware, but mostly I instinctively acted. without fail, and without regret, I always chose you. and art and love and forward motion and love and sense of worth and love and hope and love and new beginnings and love and possibility and love and you, always you, and forever you. and that's how we came to be here despite and because of it all. and you'll probably say ok and race to catch the ringing phone, and leave me with my work and this room and my choices and the light and our love