Soon. I keep saying that word. I like the way it rhymes with moon, the way it has a a softness in the middle–that holds the milky belly of a promise of time to come. Soon, like a an elastic band: the hope of it expanding and contracting with each passing day, the target always moving. Soon, like pebbles look under water: the way they appear closer from the surface, than they do from beneath it. Soon snow. Soon lovemaking. Soon holidays. Soon sudden laughter. Soon time off. Soon air travel. Soon the streets of unfamiliar cities. Soon a feeling finishing. Soon starting other things. Soon running. Soon paint. Soon night.
It’s a word that belies the present. It’s a word that moves like a mirage. It’s a word that’s full of home. It’s a word that makes the skeletons and sweet bread of dreams.
I’m here, at the cusp of soon now, feeling how that word is an excuse, a target, an arrow, a pair of wings.
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You tell me: Soon __________________________________________________. What?