Like Distant Supernovas

We seldom talk like we used to do.
It is the healthiest sign I could ever offer,
it is the nature of this workaholic year,
and I know, it just seems a shame.

We've soothed ourselves, our fevered minds,
with the artistic balm that in other lives
we welcome the dusk and the ocean tide
as friends brought together in presence and wine.

But those phantom days are only relevant
when we have the time to ponder
such depths and refractions.
In the now, wearing our workman-dull dress,
all that filters through
is the tired, winding-down hours at night
when we're off the clock,
and small realizations tease us like distant supernovas,
thousands of years old,
and their feeble light only now is reaching Terra.

All I can say is what I've always professed:
you are cherished and loved, poetic child.
I wish, as I always have,
I could give you more of the world
than you've managed to obtain.