it is perhaps the things we most often hear about, write on, reflect within that leave some bread crumb into the mark up of a being that strands itself to one called "human,"
as an old friend, or sometimes a new, we grow closer to time, the ways a once thought appears or an evaded seeing steps before our eyes, not out of a blink's ignorance but a way of knowing, intimately, the life cycle of a flower, sown and sprouted to then one day wilt and fall
.. perhaps the flower grows closer to the sun, and as so, awakens to its fondness each morning, where after a time, it may part, in not of need or want, only as equals
there is only the face of staring back, each morning of messy heads and stilled eyes waking that spray of dreams lingered and not yet liminal, though of infant to sun rayed wrinkle, there are eyes that drift slightly farther and back, the same, where threads sift and yet only lighten or darken the same based on the wear of the sun
as the world expands, we see less of it, and as we see more of it, we come to either question or confirm that we know
as human of heart, in lifetimes of love, worlds that start and then end, people passing and pausing, the questions we never know & the still moments of hearing the rain fall, when the world is quiet, and the hands that hold together grip tightly more