destinations

at that particular moment
you realize that every path
every journey, must lead somewhere
every sail points in some direction,

and I find myself often trying
to locate that uncovered thread
that cuts into that fastens things
the same way it burrows into words
and emerges at the end of the book

having completed its narrative, and
finding that destinations become journeys
once more,

like that of counting the total number
of squares in a grid,
similarity breeds distinction

and it amzes me to think how one
can travel both across and into the sky
like the smoothened clouds
or the airplanes, you might say

but alas, airplanes, too, are always
in constant transit: their landing
allows them to depart once more

for some location so familiar but
never and closer. instead,
the moment before the touch
is still the longest

that's where the fade comes in.
the sun and moon never meet
therefore, the asymptotic fate,

the missing intersection,
the words,
almost spoken, almost heard
the love,
almost lost, almost rekindled,
the destination,
almost there, almost
nowhere