And at last.
Once again.
Together of sorts.
It is my hope that life is for you.
It has been a while.

Ah. What shall we yet become?
So many things can happen in a single year.
Not to mention ten.
One hundred.

Why I've spent more than half my life waiting for you.
But perhaps it will be a long one and I shall outdo you yet.

I could tell you short stories, sell you a novella, write you a library.
Were it necessary.
Instead my lemon smells me away.
Light in cold water.
Enough to guide me through this.

Words roll around endlessly.
Anticipating their crowning which they most certainly deserve.
But which, unfortunately, I can not quite afford to give them.

And yes, I would relieve your suffering.
If only you would for it be the better.
But no, you insist. It can not be.
And right you are, for undoubtedly eternal.
Your patience must herein be tried.

We speak again.
Whispers so soft that no lip can hear them.
Not that they would have made themselves heard were they given the possibility.
For heard enough they are already.
Their silence carries them through the wind.

Awake and arise.
You have been chosen.
Called out of your eternal sleep.
A gift so great no man can speak of it.

It is there within you.
Such had I suspected from the beginning.

by Charles Fry
"And At Last"