The impossible real

You are the ache I am distracting myself from

You stand waiting

I ache less when I shove preserves into Ball jars

and make eyes at the stars

and wait for the moonstreet that lies across the water to take me

somewhere, to the moon I guess

wouldn’t that be best?

You walked on a moonstreet and called me to you

to you I walked, impossible

and sank so you could save me and I’m not sure I’ll ever get over that, not any of it.

Not the part where you called me to come or the part where I did

Not the sinking or saving, I will never recover

You were the impossible real, my ache

Not knowing what to do with this ache you make

I’ve offered it all, the contours of me in sketches, letters, numbers, gears, all the parts of my heart within reach

It’s only the impossible you want

The invitation comes, my reply sits just outside of all I can offer

except there’s you, walking on the moonstreet, asking me to come

I want to, I do

I watch the dimming of the stained glass widows as the sun forgives its way into tomorrow

My yes, a silence inside that casts itself out into the sanctuary to meet you

I fall sleep there on the pew and awaken to the last cast of the lingering light

As if a rare creature has entered the room unaware of my presence, only stillness will keep it on its course.

I dare not disturb the impossible real

that crosses the moonstreet and invites me

to stay in my worship

to stay in my ache for the impossible real