42 trips around the sun

is the topic at hand.

Capturing,

in a few lines on blank paper

the essence of this journey

that you’re making up as you go along.

So, being fed the sordid details

in interviews,

over dinner-

lying on our backs staring up at the sky

somehow,

I never seem to ask the right questions

but the words coalesce into the portrait nonetheless.

Why should I,

and how…for that matter…

be documenting this journey when

we just bumped into each other on the lido deck

at some point during trip 41?

all the whispers

tears

confessions

joys

questions and

lack of answers

are they enough to paint a semblance of anything

anyone else would understand?

It’s not like I even know that you

that can transfix a gaze on the street,

that leases herself to them

in ways you speak of but I can’t grasp

and this is my task

my seemingly insurmountable obstacle

as I face the blank canvas.

You…my you…

is someone few people, if any,

ever see.

Was it like this for da Vinci?

When he was finished

was he satisfied…

was she?

did anyone else recognize his Mona?

was that her smile

or one he simply imagined

looking back at him?

On a lighter note,  when the candles get extinguished

and tomorrow comes and lap 43 commences

everything-

and nothing-

remains the same,

but you won’t remain locked in this photo op

for very long.