Before the Period

Rounded curve of a Question Mark.

She does not reveal herself on command.

She carries the tension without closure.

She holds space.

Assesses.

Gathers.

Listens.

Waits for the Exclamation Mark,

descending like a spear,

to gather himself.

To cool the rocket heat

pulsing inside him.

There will be

an eventual period

at both their ends.

But their paths differ.

She bends herself,

sways,

searches,

almost circles the moment,

but stops herself

short of circular thinking.

She moves,

reluctantly,

toward the period.

The great mystery

still at her back.

His path is straight.

Rigid.

Conclusive.

He skips

but a single beat

before arriving

at his certainty.

Never wavering.

Never doubting.

Sometimes she pursues him.

Other times

he is stopped,

dead in his tracks,

and allows her

to carry the conversation

a little longer.

But no one feels

truly satisfied

until he holds

the final word.

It's a rare soul

that lets her

hold the stage

for long.

Comfortable

to keep her

in sight.

Alone.

Watching.

Waiting.