When he stood in line for so many hours that they counted into days; taking one step (writing one word, every two minutes like clockwork) towards a destination unknown and in a direction that no one returned from; west — toward sunsets, and his-or-maybe-just-every lonely face reflecting in the moon at night:
When the head-or-tail of the line (I can never remember which is which) opened to a set of parallel and disparate cliff faces and fanned out along it forming a delta, fertile with a belly full of hopes and fears and panting and stomach grumbling, “shores” lined by squinting eyes, dry and desperate:
When he couldn’t hear the questions (“what would happen if they saw the person they came here to find on the opposite cliff?”) and when he never joined us in questioning a God (“who would lead us to a place triangle-wedged between a return journey, a fall, and a hunger we might not have sole enough to walk, or wing enough to fly, or faith enough to stave off?”):
When he stood so close to cliff-edge he teetered back and forth — the only thing holding him upright the tension from being wedged-snug-shoulder-to-shoulder with the other dreamers, each of them looking across a faulted crust (cracked deep enough that they could still hear echoes of heartbreaks they weren’t here or maybe even alive to witness), each seeking a smile worth trying to become a miracle for:
When he locked eyes with her cross-fault: and they each, without thinking or speaking or looking back to let us know how it felt, smiled (if her’s was any indication) one of those unburdened smiles at each other — the kind that we all got in line and chased sunsets and moon risings, and strafed cliff-edges for — before they stepped out into nothing, and never broke eye contact on their way down:
When he was gone, I knew that he loved her, because I wanted to follow him, and taste whatever freedom was on his tongue before he swallowed and became insatiable. I almost chased him over the edge to ask him, but I looked up and saw your face across forever.