Confetti from a cannon, at close range, and not close enough, I think as I gather the oh-so-much of it with my fingertips and draw the much nearer until there’s no distance anymore and any more would be more than I deserve.

The Bend

Was the water as fine a host as your story told? The global position as true? It has been some time, and I’ve navigated North somewhat, bring me back.

What shifting of the ground beneath your feet? What compromise refused? Oft’ the sands of time serve us, some act as cogs, and some as polish.

Seek with me a patient balance. Find the urgent, too. May it be our paths have merged, when this day ends, when ‘morrow comes.