I’m not supposed to tell you I love you.
Too late for that, I suppose. Someone out
in dark parking lot’s playing music, blues
with lone guitar, hoarse voice starting to shout
Oh lonely. Oh so lonely I think I’m
growin’ blind. Voice fading into night’s lost
memory. Street lights glowing like sublime
distant planets, their splayed gold beams embossed
on my writing room windows. I wonder
where you are. Fair phantom flowing, I swear,
within white wave seems to take me under,
lifts me above myself. Drifts away. Where
are your thoughts, I wonder. Now I’m kneeling,
whispering messages. Pray you’re healing.
Roger Armbrust
March 21, 2010
