I spent the weeks in the forest looking up into the trees at pink pigeons and green parakeets. I waved to you across a mountain once, and I ate the white fruits of the forest and cleaned my hair with the rain.
The ocean always stood mighty before us at the end of our drive. The sugar cane swayed and whispered in the warm afternoon breeze and we saw the swell of the ocean as it pulsed toward us, distant silence.
Gently we lived upon that hill, in the middle of an ocean on the other side of the world. Over there. So far from home and so at home all at once. We existed for a blur on this small green planet in a turquoise galaxy.
And now, as I sip my California wine, with the echoes of the complaints of the day, the murmurs of my responsibilities crawling through my brain, I remember the six months I spent over there, in the middle of nowhere.
My heart it sways to the memories of a remembered way of life. It stays with the music of an old Indian Ocean. My friend, I miss you.
