MIDNIGHT NOON

Tonight, on the eve of another adventure I anticipate the pleasure that anticipates me and as usual déjà vu paints pictures of my reminiscences.

I have stopped again to find that I miss you.

I stored off my cryptic ways of expression in order to learn to pour more of myself into my collage of words and so…I cannot even hide behind my own cunning. But then, I am writing to you, as you sit beaming in my mind. I doubt if in physical reality I will ever let you see this; except of course after the school of thought, that muddy the bed of mind and let float this much semantic debris, have swam off into the obscurity of forgetfulness.

I have stopped again to find that I miss you.

A part of me offers to remind me of the times when I claimed I did not love you this much. Perhaps I was a victim of a deception executed by my own nonchalance, I answer that part of me. Another part asks,If you deceived yourself with your own nonchalance, why are you not deceived?

I could stop here; but it won’t be because I miss you because I’m content because I’m complete without you. I can’t deny that I love you, but that means I wish you joy, happiness and love. So if the kind of love you found takes you away from me then I count it an expression of my love for you to let you go.

There will be days when I miss you, and I will stop and I will regurgitate the memories we shared and chew the cud. I guess that’s happening right now.

I anticipate the pleasure that anticipates me and as usual déjà vu paints pictures of my reminiscences, except of course after the school of thought, that muddy the bed of mind and let float this much semantic debris, have swam off into the obscurity of forgetfulness.

I could stop here; but it won’t be because I miss you because I’m content because I’m complete without you. I can’t deny that I love you, but that means I wish you joy, happiness and love. So if the kind of love you found takes you away from me then I count it an expression of my love for you to let you go.

But then, I am writing to you, as you sit beaming in my mind. A part of me offers to remind me of the times when I claimed I did not love you this much. Perhaps I was a victim of a deception executed by my own nonchalance, I answer that part of me.

Tonight, on the eve of another adventure, a part of me asks,’If you deceived yourself with your own nonchalance, why are you not deceived?’

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