Gwynedd

What a strange, boundless night.
Here we are again - together yet apart - exchanging words, endlessly, unable to halt our midnight talk.
You breathe out - I might say pitifully - at the end of each sentence, as if beneath these trivial phrases lies the delicacy of all that is.
And your life-dash-golden cage weighs heavily upon you.
Perhaps so...
Or perhaps your tired heart is simply aching softly once more.

With each passing month, I grow more anxious about glancing at the watch in the stillness of night, wondering how you are, where you are, fighting the urge to check the itinerary, reciting your flight number like a sacred incantation.
Your routine has become my burden, one I have taken upon myself, alas.
You speak, stifling the barely noticeable tremor in your voice with an awkward joke.
Something has recently stirred your excessive superstitions again, as a fear of the irrational has nestled within you.

Thirteen hours - somewhere closer to purgatory and an utterly pure, endlessly resonating note in your mind, like an ancient tomograph.
I hear you, yet I do not listen.
Each time I leap with a running start into the void - the pain of a child who dashed into jagged stones.
The soul, like the body, remembers every scar - and continues to bleed.
This note trembles and shatters - in both of us at once.
I could easily silence it: it would be enough to simply slip beneath your touch, skin to skin, savoring the droplets of sweat upon it.
But you remain elusive, a mass of energy on the other end of the line, temptation and oblivion.

It seems this is our destiny: to stay awake through the night, to beat the ritual drums, to tread barefoot on the lush grass somewhere in the valleys of Gwynedd, to gaze at the heavens with fear, to never glance at the watch and to only remember how you whispered to me the other day about the stars.

Autumn approaches swiftly, heralding yet another meteor shower to fall upon my weary shoulders.

[2025]