I would hate to leave these times, fleeing fleeting times, with regrets on every front. Staring silent captured. Untouchable and redemption-less save for grace.
But what I must be after is will. Not faltering as I will be. Not fumbling on as often I am. Coming open handed, a learner to a teacher, a lost man to a map. Such sins destroy, causing dead stops in a full run forward.

I will be finding these scribbled pages years on down. Wondering who that girl was, conjured like magic by a prayer near the coffeeshop door I worked at as a young man. Leaving no dancing wisps of smoke, or curious opened eyes at her sudden arrival – save mine. Cool night break smoker. Hot shuddered heart watcher.

I now know that I will never be finding these pages years on down, still wondering who that girl was magically summoned to the door of the coffeeshop I worked at as a young man. I know her. But I do wonder what these musings, and remembrances, these cathartic reflections will mean to me, and to her, that girl, years on down.