Cupping Water

here again is lonely sunset

and that familiar emptiness growing

even as the light itself diminishes.

like touching hands through a screen door

reluctant departure

yawning gap

between desire and

"the way things are"

how I feel each time you slip

from the passenger seat

into the cool arms of night.

cold metal and glass suddenly

a wall between me and you,

and your brisk steps away from me -

the last look over your shoulder

before you disappear behind the corner.

some kind of ship that sinks nightly

drowning the tiny clutching hands

of my attachments,

spilling their contents into the sea

of darkening night.

longing and desire set adrift -

flotsam in the currents of passing time

another day has slipped like water

through my fingers

and I have nothing to show

for the air and water and

sunlight consumed.

nothing but these aging hairs

upon my head imperceptibly

marking time

and this calendar inside

I cannot read.

what will I do with the sunlight

if given again tomorrow?

when will I be infinitely aware

that every moment, each exhaled breath,

is sunset?

and every next moment,

each new rising of my chest,

an un-promised sunrise?

when will I unflinchingly see

that time passes at the speed of light.

and yet, any moment cupped

like precious water in my hands,

holds infinitely still?

TC – March 30, 2008