Everything bled together as I ran forward, then backward and finally forward again.  Unsteady with anxiety and crouching beneath nearby dog ears I stuck my head out and over to scope out the other side because I felt like prey and was looking for anything that appeared to be the formation of a tiger in wait.

After a while my legs became sore from crouching too long or standing on my head to see if the way before me was less dangerous than it appeared.  Still unsure I sat down cross-legged beneath the same dog ears and stared down at the scene below me.  

Everything was of a familiar shape to fit neatly into transitory counts with spaces wide enough for skipping or even jumping over ropes too long for play or contemplation.  From a depth that can’t be named I called out to my beloved in a voice spray-painted with fear because he wasn’t there and such a cry would reach him as an echo of light velocity and spring colors that I knew he would create art with and quickly return to me through a melodic perfumery of timelessness in the scent of ribbon candied originality that could be placed along my temples and behind my ears to infuse my pores with his love, my presence with joy and my ears with the sound of his souls eternal whisper to hover along my body, linger on my fingertips and then greet my lips in a state of wanting once formulated in the je suis country of milk and honey before being separated into high flying flags of honeycomb peace and forever whey. 

When I realized he would be the only one waving the flags I stood and walked without fear to the other side of the dog ears all the way to the end where I collapsed in exhaustion and disappointment.  It wasn’t complete.  It wasn’t the end and it wasn’t the beginning.  

It was where the writing stopped.

When I gathered the strength to stand I called out to my beloved again but this time it was to ask that all flags be moved to half-staff.  Not knowing what to make of my request he fashioned and returned to me a journal covered in dried roses and a wooden pen engraved with a dove in remembrance of things I’d written not too long ago.

Opening the journal and holding the pen I sat down where the writing stopped to record my thoughts.

“I am now poised in reflection on the back of a highly worn jacket and sitting atop quotes that entice others like me to come inside to find warmth for a moment and perhaps a lifetime and while I’ll admit there were moments of warmth it is in fear I sit covered now that I’ve reached the end of the story because with the last sentence I am illuminated to the fact that the we do not end here.

At some point I stopped going back to read the pages that bled together from the tears spilled over lines that reminded me of my myself because life began to feel self-plagiarized. I’d taken my history books to bed with me every night then copy-wrote them into my thoughts until they became an intrinsic part of my character analysis.  Between these thoughts and the end of the story it seemed questions should be generated to determine what of her was written and what of her was written into or what of her was abandoned and what of her was possessed. But in the questions the answers would serve to do nothing but increase the minds brainstorming capabilities to enhance the character and further distort the biblical truths that with a discerning eye would recognize missing books or altered accounts in order that some historical volumes remain muted or palatable to the narrowly curious who have neither want or need of painted atrocities that might suggest they too are guilty of crimes they benefit from yet exclude from study or lucid remembrance.  The hidden books recount only love to remain hidden in protection of that love, that it not be soiled by those who benefit unaware or unappreciative.  They must remain so until they are not and this must happen without my words or interference.

Even so, I was wrong. 

The freedom is not in writing the story but in letting the story go.  All of them. 

I’ve been sitting here with this book near the top of the mountain for such a long time thinking we’d continue it together but I’m putting it down now because we are unified by a love that can’t be contained to self-published accounts, public accolades or within the temperatures of year-round jackets.  

We are creators born of freedom, cloaked in love and existing in every dimension where we are released from the restrictions of rules, edits, beginnings and endings.  

The written word cannot contain us any more than the unspoken word can contain the light that beams from each of our hearts.

The scent of love knows no distance and flies freely to meet every breath.