To say something of near misses—
Lonely eyes and quiet kisses.
To see a clock—
Ticking like water
Lapping against a dock.
To see smiles, tears and smiles—
Mixed up in Memory’s files.
Where you were is where I am—
Concentric circling like an invisible man.
If presence is key,
Then what are we?
Eyes darting on a shadowed wall,
Or glass lovers running down parallel halls?
Perhaps the time difference says it all--
Although that was not my intention,
Maybe we simply missed the points of inflection.
But to tweak the misnomer,
A near-miss is in fact a near-hit--
Whose charted course no man can predict.
So hours and miles aside;
Emotion’s shapes may shift,
But passion will not subside.
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