In the on-again/off-again discombobulation of recent events, after nights of broken sleep and days of scattered attention, of concentration broken by many demands, occasionally the fog lifts. It lifts for minutes at a time, and at unexpected moments.

These minutes are the love note from the paramour in the head. The wave from a beautiful stranger. The middle-of-the-night nudge, the candlelit seduction, the touch: The words.

In writer-world, these moments can be surprising and unexpected, drawn from the super-perceptions of living—as this morning’s image was. They can be hard won (as relationships so often are); a patient conversation that struggles to get to the bottom of an issue…even if we don’t know what the issue is. They can sweep us away, as the flood of passion might. They can be reluctant and shy and undisclosing. They can be downright pissy and difficult.

We think we know who this lover is. We think we can find him in the dark. We think he’s going to be as in love with us as we are with him. No.

We wait for things to be easy; for the words to flow unstoppered from our souls. We hope for the words to be the constant lover at our backs, warm and willing. We hope for the ideal and impossible thing. We wait for the tentative lover to come calling. We wait for the transport of ecstasy. We wait for the sound of our names.

Sometimes we get what we want. Sometimes we don’t.

Are our expectations too high? Is the certainty of our skills, our rightful place, something we have no right to desire? Or is just-letting-be, just-letting-happen the secret?

Words, I know you’re out there. I know you love me. Just stop by when you have the chance….

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