Thrust and Parry

We seem to be writing circles around each other,
on either side of this invisible demarcation line,
we have drawn down the center of the city.

Maybe one day you will look up,
and I will be on the other side of the desk,
peppered with the intimates of your life,
with a wry smile and a wicked wink.
That is, if you ever look up.

In the meantime,
there is an invisible thrust and parry,
and I, for one,
am not sure who is thrusting and who is parrying.

We both have teeth,
and we are gnawing at every literary nuisance,
that gets in our way.

You in your little forest on the other side of town,
with a pretty young thing wrapped in your arms.
Me in my carefully built fortress,
meant to keep interlopers from the walls,
who always seem to sneak in anyways.

I should have set better traps.


I would interrupt you as you hold court,
to your glassy eyed admirers,
but I am only passing through.
I have to run.

You see, I am just so busy with all this nothing to do.
There are places I need to be,
and people I need to turn a blind eye too.
I need to get all these words out,
before they turn to stone inside my head,
and my skull becomes a large rattling maraca,
keeping time with the tragically melodramatic songs of the world.

I really am in a rush.
I really must run.

Maybe we will meet again without our clothing,
and lay down our swords.
Maybe we will finally write a straight line,
and close our eyes to the unnecessary noise of cluttered hearts.
Maybe the pen is mightier than the writer,
and soft lips can hold the truth and demise of the hour at bay.

Maybe one day;
Just one day will be enough.