The wind will come when the wind will come. The flower will bloom when the flower will bloom. The life will be born when the life will be born. Death will come when death will come.
We’ll talk again when we’ll talk again. Most likely, I can’t say for sure. We’ll talk again when we’ll talk again. I don’t have a response to your old sentiments.
So old that I can no longer find a word for it. Leftover tears squeezed out of the eyes like water dripping from a broken tap. Nothing fresh or grandiose.
Life is good when I submit to the natural cycle of memories. To remembering and forgetting. Life is good, almost good, when I forget what happened from this river to that river. Except that I occasionally remember how the lake rippled gently under the sun when I stood facing the breeze, held by your arms from behind.
And even that, I almost forgot.
We’ll talk again when we’ll talk again. We talk again when we talk again. We talk and don’t talk. We say many things and we say nothing. I look at you while you look at the screen. Your beard grows and is cleaned and grows and is cleaned, on and on over the years, on the other side of the screen.
The stars here are really bright, despite many of the cloudy days. When I stand under the night sky and look above at them through the half naked branches I see you, your mysteriously colored eyes.
Or I don’t. I walk under the walking moon, seeing it grow rounder and rounder. Another month has passed.
When will I talk to you again?
I’ll talk to you again when I’ll talk to you again.