Closeness

Closeness is a road, it can be short, or long, or anywhere in between. It can be a simple walk from you, to me. But instead it became a maze of ancient streets, following a logic based upon ideas and places long forgotten. All that remains is a street name, a word here or there that no longer holds meaning, only another dead end for me to be lost down, on my way to finding you. 

It’s hard to navigate, these streets of yours, the strata of your history turning my feet like broken cobblestones. I wish I could be an archaeologist - a broken pot telling me what you were, what you did and how you lived before I came upon you. I wish I could be a builder, construct my own path, wear away the virgin ground, create a channel of familiarity and sweetness, with no obstacles in my way, just a pleasant walk among the fields. But instead, my closeness to you is the asphalt of winter’s end. Cracked and broken, washed away by snow and flood, crumbling at every precarious step.

If I had a map of your streets, a guide to walk me through your territory, perhaps we would have a chance. But without one, I am lost. Is this the way to the highway of my friendship? Or the cul-de-sac of forgotten dreams? The avenue of love, is it that way? Or does it lead to the broken parking meter of time lost?