What do we do but make toast and cuddle on Sundays& kiss in the pouring rain,underneath the street lights of the inner cities?What do we do but make tea with honey?Read poetry,Keats preferably.Nature’s lighttouches the back of the seaand we have the feeling of remembering somethingbut we didn’t remember knowing it.It is remembering that we are meant to be joy!What do we do but turn towards love?& run towards hope?We run like Spanish Bulls,we run, like the falling of starsmeshing into the fires of the unknown.(Please I whisper to the clouds, let me be okay in the unknown.)We bleed like the red of rosesfalling into watercleansing love that was lostpurifying the streams of our lust.A soul is already carpeted in the divine andwho is to say sorrow isn’t God?Who is to say love isn’t prayer?Who is to say time is always on our side?I watch the sun fall over the palms &the flicker of a flame manifesting into the way she puts herlips around her cigarette.Even there, she is holy.Even there she is noble.Even there she questions if she is beautiful.My god.I thought.If you only knew.

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