Spun
You return to me, Cyclically: as a whiff of a hallucinated scent; As a flashback that Etches itself in the atmosphere, Lingering almost long enough to Return real.
Short-lived instances, these, wherein My inner world booms and blossoms By a sparked (mere) belief in your apparition.
If I am truly lucky, You return to me as a dream: Mine, for one night and a day.
So real, Almost real, That ever since you left, I have been wanting to make sense Of this
Returning.
First, I told myself it was the heart's Muscle memory:
The first time we met; our first kiss; The first time sex, and, Above all, The first "I love you" we Whispered into The aether.
All these golden threads tied to time's fabric. Yet time isn't cyclical,
Or is it?
Later, I considered The moon the culprit;
Thought Your returning Had something to do With its full pull, or new releasing All the water that makes me, or maybe At least my blood.
But despite wishful thinking Heavily influencing my pattern seeking, I could never Honestly link you to The phases of the moon.
In hindsight, I was only lying to myself. Cheating with the dates; what's a day, Anyway?
Everything, it seems.
Truth be told, I do not know Why your returning to me feels so cyclical, But when I look to the night sky each night And see the constellations slowly changing Places, as Earth is spinning, I realize this love is so much Bigger than me.
To me, You are love.
And love is all —
The All.
And I am spinning, Spinning, spinning.
--- 1-6-2026, M.A. Tempels ©
