The view: outwards and onwards

Drifting through the meadows
of my spacious consciousness
is the hope of finding again
the opportunity of engaging
in

looking forward to
the "talk-that-never-was"
or to the "hug-that-never-will-be"

And there we pass again,
not by the same street sign
but to the invisible stitch
protruding somewhere
just above our beer-filled bellies

a place for drowned
winged-insects that once
fluttered by here and there inside
with rainbow colored flaps

This time we say (in chorus or not):
"Here lies
something broken
and unappeased,
it had lived and then died,
was sort of there and then no longer."

for the seventh blasted time.