The shortest path to love and happiness

is never apparent, never visible in the light of the sun at dusk. We can try to chart a course, you and I, but which one of us will succeed is a matter best left to others my love, not spoken of at dawn when the slanted rays of orange cross hatch your back, swinging back and forth, like shallow waves in a pond a small rock begins. Too many obstacles must be surveyed, to many discoveries of things unknown must be displayed before either of us can take this kiss, and the next slight slip of breath we share face to face, as serendipitous. You wish to draw a line right through my breasts into my heart, and name that space for yourself, but do not take that chance, don't jinx the result. Birds mate for life, I've heard it said, but that's not miraculous. Two fools shackled to their living room chairs can say as much. We want something else, do we not? So do not watch too close the direction I take, for the road to my heart is a tangled thread, an uneven weave of old and new cloth, some silk, some rough as coarse burlap. More dimensions exist in the universe than any map can present. Believe me not? Then look at yourself, your empty arms at night when we pull apart. That moment's thoughts are a burden which can never be fixed, never made to vanish. I discern their growth, and the mysterious past through which they elude your grasp. Give it up. If someday we lose ourselves enough, perhaps we'll no longer need a map. Time will show to us that the path we wanted was the one we took.