I wrote you a poem, but …

It was not penned
and so fell on thin
nay, nebulous ether.
So I must ask of my pen
next time, if there be such.
Opportunities rare, pick me up,
without recourse to intermediacy.

You raise me
from the ground
and exalt my heart,
not just in words
albeit they convey
some little sense,
of that yearning deep.

In fact, better still, stride,
move and reach out.
For words are fine
but eyes, breath, lips
are exalted paths to lovers beats.
I know this, now, but finite time.
Be thee now enough?
But wishing is not wellness, wholeness.

Fragmentary recall
as days are fleet
and busyness crowds
that fragile tidal isthmus
between what we were
at my initial musing
and days hence, uncertainty.

But recall nevertheless
at least my part.
We toiled together, team, workmates,
building something, love.
beautiful, lasting in its way, garden
And nearly, then, you I reached.
So I am thrown back now, on words.

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