i don't know how colin stands it, living

without touch as he does. god, i want to wrap my arms

around him, press him to me, just so he doesn't internally combust

or externally explode from sensory deprivation.

but i'm not him. he seems okay, the stoic loner at peace,

the ascetic monk wearing a robe of serenity.

i couldn't do it. there he is, toiling in the field of the lord,

only it isn't the field of the lord, just a vineyard,

and a pretty hardscrabble one at that. tough love.

but beautiful! my god it's beautiful.

substantive? that too. fulfilling? for him, completely,

though, what is complete?

sigh. the sun feels too good. i bask, shedding last night's excesses,

the drink and music, purging by sunshine.

life—work and leisure—two to days to blow off five+ days of toil

(of the marginally fulfilling kind).

i bask, forget colin for a moment, dig into my own memory

of sensation, one in particular, a simple hug

which burned and burned and burned and burned

imprinting her upon me forever. 

i bring it out now, eyes closed against the bright light, 

i bring it back, almost to its original state. it ended too soon.

forever wouldn't have been time enough—

but it would have done—and here come clouds.