Why is it that i write to you?

after all this time-

Sigh! It's unfinished business,

like the chapters of an unfinished novel.

I still like you?

But all my imaginations are like seagulls without wings.

Sigh! 

But still.

Sometimes, a color, a flash of light reminds me of

that possibility, that clear blue sky.

It's haunting.

Then I think I appear to you like air, 

like breaths going in and out without care,

without passion.

but,

then I remember:

Around the lake, with a thousand stones,

when the sun sits on the evening horizon,

that hope in a kiss,

is still a singing bird, 

that pushes me.