Be good to me, be good to me, in so many aching ways with and without reason I want to be good for you. Believing as much, that I give to the Holy Mountain as much as it gives to me, in tablet and cuneiform, I walk back down from the high country, astride through the altitudes with messages written and wisdom adhered, stepping down deep into the thick green incline, so partially and softly remembered, memories disintegrating within dew as the sun rises behind me, sets before me. I am to give everything, I am to give it imperfect and without the ‘right time,’ a muddy indentation made without discretion.
And they are equal. As much as I cannot read between the lines on the stones delivered on high, as the heat of the sun and light of the day melts into the green and luscious hillside, so are my steps forgotten, never seen again. Is it just as good, or maybe worse, or is it exactly as it should be, that my actions of the past are forgotten, and my lessons for tomorrow are incomprehensible. Nothing is ever as good or as bad as deemed, leaves the lurch: times comes and goes with an instantaneous incredulousness, where I come and where I go means something very different in a minute, a year, and ultimately I cannot recall it.
How would I know to choose you tomorrow and the day after, and on and on and on? I, who hope, so dreadfully, painfully, to remember the soft stretch of your hand onto my elbow prone, that I might recall it so vastly, again, with your eyes closing onto the narrow spheres of mine.