Up early this morning. But then again, why would this day be any different from the next or any other?
I am always up early.
But today was different.
The rain was misty and damp to say the least.
Spring has sprung.
I know.
But yet, somehow, the winter is afraid to lose its grip and embrace the warmth.
I get that.

At the moment, I am no place and yet I am everywhere else but here. Safe to say that I understand what it means to not be present. And I say this to you, knowing both full and well that I am right here. Always.
I am exactly where I am supposed to be. Or at least, so I have been told.
I have been told that no matter where you go or where you run to or hide; there you are.
There is no escape and there is no getting away from the truth and nor can we hide from the outcomes of everyday life.
I know this.
But I have run away ore as an adult than when I was a kid.
I’ve hid more as a grown man than when I was young and playing hide-and-go-seek.

I have also been told that you can see someone every day, and you can interact with them, you can sit and eat with them and break bread, and you can talk to someone all the time and find out that they had something deep inside that you knew nothing about.

I see you now. You are a grown man.
Strong and tall.
I see you now and I wish I was there to see you then.

I wish I was there when you tossed your first pitch or played your first game.
Come to think of it, I wish I was there when you wore that surprised look that a child makes when he does something or pulls off a trick for the very first time.

I have always wondered what it would be like to be strong.
But what does it mean to be strong?
What does it mean to have strength?
Or to be capable?

Is this no different from exposing your weaknesses?
Is it the same as acknowledging them and continuing just the same?
I think about this.

I don’t know how I addressed my first poem.
Then again, I knew who the poem was for.
I always knew who I wrote this too, even thought I never met her.
(meaning you)
And if I met her, I never believed that I could keep her
(meaning you)

I’m not sure if I thought that anything I said would mean anything to anyone; and therefore, I suppose that I just wrote to write to you, or to whomever it is I write to.

The next thing I knew, it was summertime. The warmth began to change the way we spent our time outdoors. The days were longer and the nights were hotter. And I?
I was a young man, lovelessly hopeful and silently admiring those who had someone to go home to.
Spring had gone by so fast, as if yesterday was just here.
The winter was a blur to me, as if autumn had just begun by changing the leaves on the trees in Central Park.
New York City had finally calmed down from its previous hiatus and all the “who’s-who’s” and “what’s-what” and the popular debutantes and socialites race to beaches in their Hampton summer homes or fight their spots on the Fire Island ferries.

I am not so sure how this is or how things happen.
Age stepped in and the days of being “out east” are light years away and more like a story that happened to me in another life.
I am not sure how time flies and blows passed us, like speeding cars on the expressway, unaware and uncaring about the rest of the world because to them, all lanes are the passing lane.
I see time like this too.
Remember when life was free enough not to care who came or went?

I saw you in a dream of mine.
This was real and not long ago.
Yet, this was only a dream so then again, I suppose none of this was real, —unless it was.
Or maybe this is that thing we call memory that bubbles to the surface. Or wait, maybe this goes deeper to a trigger or a receptor in the brain. Maybe something was touched or an end-switch was enabled to recreate a memory in a dream.
Or . . .
Maybe this is what I call my subconscious and so, perhaps something else is overlapping in my life to which, yes. I think I need to pay attention for a while.

Dare I say this and go forward, or if I say anything like this at all, then let me say this with all I have.
Let me be clear and admit to the fear that you will turn away and laugh or reject me.
Or let me say this anyway.
Let me get this off my chest, despite the worry that you will turn away completely and never see me the same again.
And if this were true, then let me preface my entry by saying that I am someone with desires, no different from the fantasies that people rarely speak about.
Yes, I have done things that outrage the spectrum of intimate fantasy.
I have been part of the wild or more erotic things, which in my best assumption, this only makes me human.

I have tried to keep up. I have.
I’ve run and I’ve run and I’ve run to the point where I’ve run into myself at the door.
And what does this do for me?
I have burned the candle at both ends.
I ducked and stayed low to dodge the enemies and I hid.
I have surrendered and retreated.
And to what avail?

I ran as fast as I could and somehow, there are times when my legs are stuck, like they are in my one of my scary dreams.
Understand?