Romance

How curious the recollection is—
the sudden recollection, subtly withdrawn from the scabbard of the mind.
What thoughts I find!
But what’s the recollection, when recalled exactly?
Not something clear and straightforward, to be expressed matter-of-factly—
but an overwhelming yearning with object unknown.
Oh, I think of you.
The smile and the laugh, and the turn away again to face the sun.
And it’s all done, and I try to feel the feeling I once felt,
the subtle scabbard once again, the Sehnsucht of the moment
that can haunt you for those reasons you know not.
Like ghosts at the shuttle, weaving dreams.
Do you know the feeling that invades your thoughts and bares your soul?
Can you understand the toll it takes on you?
Can I—can I remember you? I can, and hope that you remember me,
but that’s not it, my dear—you are a part, but it’s the feeling that my heart
is out of place in this world of grey.
(That’s how I feel today, at least.)
We can only escape, perhaps, by a word or a laugh or a song—
I can think of you, and we can find the time to escape a dreary tedium,
but is that for the best?

Well!

Or is it true?

Who knew, or knows, or ever would?

It’s the quest of the unicorn, and for that I suppose we’ll give thanks,
and I’ll give thanks for you.

Such curious thoughts when one’s alone.