I hear it sometimes at night,

the mountain. It calls my name in the dark,

calls me back to your

face, your hands, your mouth, your

empty space of highway and asphalt that maps

your love for me as a scar on this beautiful

expanse of nothing that is my all.

I hear it sometimes at night,

the mountain. I hear your pain.

All the loss and hurt you feel

whispers across the earth and whips through

the cities with the voice of a thousand

winds, singing and

dancing your anguish.

I hear it sometimes at night,

the mountain.

Solid it holds me without touch

-ing hurts even now because your hands never will.

Reality sets in and the mountain refuses

to move amidst the bustling metropolis

that continues ignoring

what it doesn’t understand.

I hear it sometimes at night,

the mountain,

whispering the secrets of the earth and

life and love and

it takes me to

the silent place deep within your

wants that need me like I need

you and I learn how to sleep again.

I hear it sometimes at night,

the mountain.

Tonight I followed it, traced the scars back to the

heart of it all, the center

of this madness where you and I never were

but always lasted out the

dawning age of rock and stone and

home.