Fragment (consider revising)

I don’t tell my stories when asked. My soul does not unfurl that way. Rather, asking will win you a smile or a sigh or silence. My words and my pictures follow their own rhythms. But thank you for asking (that is my most recent improvement that I am indeed grateful to be asked).

I try to ride my tides, calling when words pour forth, when my eyes twinkle, high. Or low, often brought at ebb before your door. Connect with me. I am sad. You don’t have to make me happy. I merely want to touch you or sit in the same room, breathing.

Or channel the airwaves, comb the clouds into some cumulus highway between us. Who cares if we’re saying nothing much at P6 a minute. The thing that matters to me is that you’re at the other end. “So what did you eat today?” Funny, that always makes us laugh. But really, I want to know. Not that it matters what you chewed today, my love. Just that I could ask.

I too try to ride your tides, knowing that high will get me nowhere with you if you are at an ebb. Then I am like a fly that you are fond of, one too many questions and you shut the screen door on me. Fly, cute you may be, but let me sleep.

When the calendar brings us together, then you tell me your stories, sometimes, unbidden, from memory, from whatever. Then I am glad.