You lean your back against these freshly mortared walls and prattle on about yourself. The sun is shining brightly on your face. I lean with my back to brick to your back listening. You have not breached the wall, do you think you have? You ask me if I am there, you think you can see me, but all you see is my reflection in the still pool at your feet, the one that is fed by my life stream waters. I tell you I don’t want to talk about what I am feeling, you ask me what and I shake my head. I hide my depths, and the secret flowers of my soul, and the oak that grows, you see the branches and feel its cool breeze but you do not see the solid trunk or its reaching roots. My heart beats silently here like one that has been carved in the deep grooves of bark. An arrow draw through it. Only my initials are visible or readable. There is a door to this garden, but you have not yet found it, and I doubt you are even aware it is there. My clever mortar is it not invisible and so perfect? I smile my broad smile that has melted the hearts of millions, but yours I do not think it melts so much. It just pretends to, like an acorn wrapped in chocolate, bitter and hard underneath that foil wrapper and sweet goodness. Or wait, could that be my own heart? For a moment the garden spins, and I wonder if I have maybe built it on some merry go round, but then I realize it is just me noticing that the earth is turning and time is passing. Your princess calls to you and I am left leaning against the wall alone. A bird lands on the opposite wall and begins singing. You call from afar, I am with you my darling, but I am waiting to see what the bird will do. I have already forgotten you. But only because I am sure in time you will forget me. There it is bitter heart. I wander with my hands passing on the trees looking up and thinking they can hear my whispered breath. Its a beautiful day is it not? Every day is beautiful I say for the tree. No it is just the sound of my own thoughts. The sun has set and the moon has risen and now the birds are beginning to sing again. I rise from my slumber in the mossy patch near the sycamore tree. The mist is damp and cool and I put my palms together and pray. I pray for nothing. Just that this moment is what is is. I remember things said and things passed and worry about the future, I ask for just this moment, because the rest is too much to bear. It is as though the now is a thread that will break from the pressures that may come. I ask for the strength to bear them. I go and sit with my back against the wall, it is still a little warm, I wait, but you do not come to me. I always wait alone.