You remind me of Selah, of her eyes, so distinguished,
hating to be called holy. That’s how I knew, pondering psychiatry, what becomes
of souls. To become features, as they say, to turn on the personality: many
traits, several characters, people fall for each one. I imagine knowing so much
that a person is never appeased. I, too, imagine such a connection that no one
can replace it.
I’m not selling you some dream. I’m not asking for a
hand in marriage. What I’ve figured out, concerning humans, let’s me know
probability.
It wasn’t your place. We’ve nothing, no foundation, and
esoteria is too vague to extend as evidence: un-chasable, notwithstanding, an
image, an impression, something in clouds, made opaque, made convincing.
You remind me of Selah, of her style, her persona, her
gifts and woes. I suppose at some level all souls suffer together.
With memories only. I wish well the warriors at seas—oceanic
sunrise, sailing the human ship.
