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A bit of prose poetry, written in the wee hours.
Atop the midnight mountain
Is there a point at which you can’t lose someone? When they are as lost as they can be? I just wrote a poem — you remember, don’t you? — about the second time I lost you. And here we are, already at the third time. Maybe I imagined all this. Perhaps we never even met that night. I can’t really remember it. I just know the story. Like I know so many stories. We could sit around a campfire, telling tall tales about the ways we met and parted and met and parted again. Accompanied by an acoustic guitar — you could play it — and the soft sigh of the desert wind. Of course, the wind doesn’t really sigh or wail or moan — we do, and the wind carries the news across the flatland to our waiting tribesmen. When the sigh reaches them, one young warrior will stand, look toward the horizon, and step into the night, lost beyond the light of the fire. If he keeps walking, beyond thirst and hunger and doubt, he may arrive at the base of the midnight mountain. And if he can will his legs to take him to the summit, he may find me there. And if he sees me, silhouetted against the rocky ground by a full harvest moon, he may ask me one question. And I will tell him I am waiting for you.
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